


The Growing Season

by jaradel, tiptoe39



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Cooking, Food, Food Porn, M/M, Rating subject to change, WIP, farmers market, more tags TBD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://61below.tumblr.com/post/149077069838/jack-laurent-zimmermann-is-exactly-that-kind-of">this post</a> from 61below.</p><p>It's summer at the farmer's market, and from his bakery stall Eric Bittle can't help but notice the handsome guy at the Zimmermann Farms stand. A story of romance, good food, and changing seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Something Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [61Below](https://archiveofourown.org/users/61Below/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Characters belong to [Ngozi](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com), creator of Check Please!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By tiptoe39.

How he can wear flannel in this weather is anyone’s guess.

But Bitty doesn’t mind the way he sweats as he moves carts of ripe tomatoes and bulbous squashes from truck to table. A bead glistens at his forehead, slides down the slope of his nose to linger on the tip of his chin. His arms stretch taut, muscles bunched, around the crates as he hefts them. The mop of dark hair above his eyebrows is damp, misshapen from the press of his baseball cap, discarded at the side of the register. As Bitty watches, a tuft of bangs becomes unmoored from where he’s combed it aside and flops down almost to his eyes. He doesn’t move to dislodge it. Bitty itches to cross the aisle and slide in behind the Zimmermann Farms table, lift one hand and brush it out of the way without a single word.

He bites his lip and looks down at his own table. Really, he should be rearranging the scones or sorting the loaves or _something,_ but every single week, as this “Mr. Zimmermann” (Bitty has no idea of his first name) unloads his wares, Bitty’s reduced to a staring, flushing mess. Nobody ought to look like that. Nobody especially ought to look like that when they’re toting vegetables. It almost makes Bitty want to eat a healthy diet. Or grow green beans. Or something, some excuse to have a conversation with this square-jawed, droopy-eyed farmer who, when he smiles at a customer, makes Bitty’s toes curl up in his sandals. Maybe he should pick up some rhubarb for a pie.

Yes, rhubarb… and it’s a little early in the season for pumpkins, but when fall rolls around maybe he’ll have pumpkins and … and oh dear Bitty is staring isn’t he.

Worse. Mr. Zimmermann is staring back. Okay not staring, their eyes have just caught and now Zimmermann’s lifting a hand in a halfhearted wave and he’s almost kind of smiling maybe? And Bitty is the worst creeper in existence, he’s being a staring creeper, he needs to look away now.

Bread. Sort the bread. The zucchini bread here and the banana bread here and oh, oh, yes, he could go buy some zucchinis. Why didn’t he think of that? But if Zimmermann is going to look at him with those half-suspicious eyes maybe he should just give up the ghost. He frantically arranges and re-arranges fat loaves of bread on his tables.

It’s 9 AM now, and customers are starting to trickle into the church parking lot that doubles as a marketplace every Saturday morning in season. Bitty turns on the charm, smiling at the businesswomen and soccer dads as they come by. As they approach his tables, he calls out to them. “A little something for breakfast? You need your energy to shop! Y’all gotta taste these scones!” His efforts garner him a few customers and a lot of pleasant, albeit slightly irritated smiles. Whatever. This is Bitty’s way of doing business, and most of the regulars know him and wave, even if they don’t stop in to pick up a muffin or croissant donut to fuel their shopping trips.

Bitty loves Saturday mornings at the farmer’s market. It’s hard to be cooped up in a kitchen all week long, even if it’s _his_ kitchen in _his_ bakery and he’s so proud of that fact he could bust a few buttons. The break and the open air are nice. He can swing his arms without wrecking a display case. And the people, oh, the people. Bitty loves people. He loves watching people, he loves chatting with them, he loves just being around a whole bunch of them. They don’t even have to look in his direction and he’s energized. If it weren’t for his Georgia farm roots, he probably would have moved to the city long ago.

Course, it also helps when one of those people is a flannel-wearing, floppy-banged, musclebound farmhand who is _standing right in front of him oh my GOD._

Bitty leaps into action. “Morning! Good morning! Oh my goodness, you startled me, I didn’t expect you to, well, hello, you’re Mr. Zimmermann, right, I’m Bitty, would you like a scone? Or one of my mini-pies, they’re county-fair-winning blue-ribbon pies, we have eight flavors. Don’t you have to work? Well, I suppose you’re not the only one over there, never mind me. Um, let me start again, hi, hello…”

“Bitty?” Oh. Oh, God, his _voice_. Bitty thinks he might die. “Is that short for something?”

“Um. Yes. It’s. Well, it’s my last name, Bittle, Eric Bittle’s my full name. But everyone calls me Bitty.”

“Heh.”  The corners of Zimmermann’s mouth turn up - almost a smile, but not quite, and it fades queckily. Bitty’s heart hummingbirds madly. “So did you bake all of these?”

“Yeah! Well, me and my staff. But usually there’s only one or two others in the kitchen at the same time, so I’ve got my little hands in everything! Do you want to try something? I mean it about the mini-pies. Eight flavors. You look to me like… a strawberries and cream guy? No, wait, that’s not right. Not strawberries and cream. Peach! No, not peach either.”

“Heh.” Zimmermann has his finger on one of the pie boxes, and is tracing the label gently, round and found. “I don’t eat a lot of sweets.”

“Well, isn’t that a crying shame?”

“Is it?” Zimmermann lifts an eyebrow “Am I too skinny?”

Bitty flushes. What kind of a comment is that, if not an acknowledgment that he knows Bitty’s been looking at him? “Oh, Lord, no! I mean… All I mean is, I think everybody deserves a little something sweet in their life once in a while.”

“That’s my problem,” Zimmermann says. “If I start, it won’t be just once in a while.”

Bitty lifts his finger to say something stupid, probably about allowing joy into your life or something awful like that, but then a woman with four kids in tow wants to make an order. It takes her the better part of five minutes to pry her children’s choices out of their heads, and Bitty stands patiently and takes care of her until she’s done. As the kids walk away, munching their crullers and cookies and muffins, Bitty is surprised to see Zimmermann still standing there, this time with a mini-pie in his hand.

“Oh!” Bitty says. “Which one did you decide on?”

Zimmermann looks at him with … are they shy eyes? Or sad? Bitty can’t really tell. “Maple sugar-crusted apple,” he reads off the box label. “Is it good?”

“Good! Well, let me tell you, Mr. Zimmermann. You’ll be tasting all that sweetness on your fingertips for hours after…”

“Jack.”

“Hm?”

“Call me Jack.” And this time… this time it’s a genuine smile on his lips.

“Jack Zimmermann?” He does kind of look like a Jack now, come to think of it.

“That’s right.” Zimmermann… _Jack_ …. looks down at the pie and shrugs his shoulders, huffing out a soft laugh. “Might as well. I’ll take it.” He hands the little square box over to Bitty, ostensibly to ring him up.

Bitty pushes it right back into his hands. “Oh no, Mister…. I mean Jack, this one’s on the house. You just promise me to enjoy it with zero guilt, you understand me?”

“Hah. I’ll try.” Jack looks down at the little pie, smiling fondly at it, the way you might smile at a lover. For an instant, Bitty’s a mite jealous of his confection. “Thank you. It was nice talking to you.”

“Oh, likewise! Come by anytime.” Bitty lifts his hand to wave, although Jack isn’t retreating from his booth. In fact, he seems almost rooted to the spot.

“You, um, feel free to come over, too. We have some good summer fruits, some peaches.” Jack indicates one corner of his stall, and Bitty cranes his neck to see past the obstruction of his tent pole. What do you know. There are some peaches there, and plums, looking plump and ripe in their bins. How had Bitty missed that before? Perhaps he just hadn’t thought to look for them.

“Do you sell in bulk?” Bitty asks. “We buy in bulk for the bakery, although I could always just make a li’l peach pie for just the t— i mean, for myself.” Lord, he’d almost said _for just the two of us,_ as though he were about to invite Jack off on a romantic picnic.

Which wasn’t an image he had in his head before this moment, but Lord, now he can’t shake it. Jack relaxing and pleasant, Bitty’s bare feet tickled by the grass. A pie half-eaten sitting between them, peaches glistening in sticky cream. They could talk about farming and baking and where they came from – he wants so badly to know where Jack’s come from – and once in a while Bitty might reach over and touch Jack’s hand, just lightly, just for emphasis…

Jack looks at him sidelong. “For some reason I have trouble imagining you eating a whole pie by yourself,” he says, and Bitty has the unsettling notion that maybe, somehow, Jack has heard his thoughts.

Unsure what reaction to go with, he decides on annoyance. “Jack Zimmermann,” he says, placing his hands on his hips, “are you saying _I’m_ too skinny?”

This brings a loud, short laugh from Jack’s lips. Bitty doesn’t expect it, and it sends tingles up his arms. “Never,” he says. “But you could probably use a little more protein.”

“You.. you sell _vegetables!”_ Bitty blurts before he can help himself. Oh, he should really be annoyed at the way Jack is sizing him up now, eyes raking over him, mouth tipped upward in amusement. Really annoyed and not turned on at _all._

“Thanks for the pie,” Jack says, and beats a quick path back to his own booth. Bitty watches him go with a mixture of consternation and excitement. So that’s Jack Zimmermann. He’s simultaneously everything Bitty thought he’d be and a complete surprise. How he managed that, Bitty doesn’t know. But he does know that as soon as he gets a minute he’s going to go over there and check out those peaches.  Maybe a peach pie would be a nice special for next weekend’s farmer’s market. After all, everybody deserves a little something sweet in their lives.

 


	2. A Peck of Peaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By Jaradel.

When there is a lull in the customers coming to his table, and he sees that Jack is also free, Bitty wanders across to the Zimmermann Farms stall, making a bee-line for the peaches. He pretends not to notice Jack grinning at him as he examines the peaches in the basket, checking their firmness.

“Need any help?”

Bitty looks up into the bright blue eyes of Jack Zimmermann, and wills himself not to stare too long. It doesn’t miss his notice that Jack has little crinkles around his eyes, evidence of the smile that he’s suppressing. Bitty lifts his chin. “How much for a peck?” he asks.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Just a peck?”

Bitty folds his arms. “If I like them, I’ll buy more next time.”

Jack grins. “No charge.”

Bitty is momentarily speechless. “But - but - ”

“You gave me a mini pie, I’m giving you a peck of peaches.”

“That’s hardly an equitable trade!” Bitty protests.

Jack folds his arms, mirroring Bitty. “Fine. I’ll give you a peck of peaches, and you bake a pie with them. For me.”

“A peck of peaches will make more than one pie.”

“Well then, you’ll have a pie for yourself too.”

Bitty purses his lips. Somehow, in spite of getting a free peck of peaches, he feels like he’s being played, but a good deal on produce wins out over his suspicions. “Deal.”

He sticks out his hand, and damn near melts when Jack’s larger, calloused hand wraps around it, squeezing gently yet firmly, and giving it a shake. “Deal.”

Bitty knows he should let go, but Jack doesn’t let go either, and they stand there for a moment, hands clasped. Jack’s eyes are warm, in spite of their icy shade, and his expression is soft. If Bitty’s not careful, he’ll be standing here all day.

Jack lets go with a last little squeeze. “Let me get you a bag,” he says, rummaging behind his table.

“Right! Yes, thank you,” Bitty stammers. His cheeks are warm, and the tips of his ears are on fire. Jack hands him a small paper bag with handles, and Bitty sets about selecting the very best peaches out of the bushel basket in front of him.

Jack is helping other customers when Bitty finishes. He wonders if he should wait - perhaps Jack wants to weigh the bag, make sure Bitty isn’t taking more than they agreed on. But Jack looks up and waves Bitty away with a small smile. “Looking forward to that pie, Bittle,” he says, and Bitty blushes as he walks back to his own stall.

* * *

The peaches are delicious. No - they're  _sinfully_  delicious. Sweet, and juicy, and absolutely _perfect_  for peach pie. Bitty peels half of the peaches for a test pie; if it turns out as well as he expects, he’ll use the rest for Jack’s pie. Honestly, everything that happened at the farmer’s market feels like some sort of dream. He goes on autopilot, peeling and slicing peaches as he replays the conversations they had. Jack is absolutely his type, but Bitty is guarded - it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fallen for a straight boy, and what seemed like flirting could just have been Jack being friendly. But oh, it’s hard to play it cool when he remembers the way Jack looked at him, the handshake that felt like a caress and lingered a beat too long to be casual, the softness of Jack’s face when they talked.

Bitty shakes his head as he mixes sugar, a bit of flour, and cinnamon in with the sliced peaches. _Never fall for a straight boy._  He repeats it like a mantra.

* * *

Next Saturday, Bitty is at the church early, setting up his tent and tables and unpacking his baked goods. Jack’s pie sits in a special pastry box tied with a satin ribbon, a shade of blue that reminds Bitty of Jack’s eyes. The test pie was an unqualified success, and Bitty hopes that the one he made for Jack is even better.

Across the way, the red pickup truck with Zimmermann Farms emblazoned on the side pulls up, and Jack and his coworkers ( _employees? Does Jack own the farm?_  Bitty wonders) start setting up the tables and unloading produce. Bitty tries to busy himself with his own stall, but he keeps sneaking glances at Jack arranging produce in their crates and baskets, shamelessly admiring the view. Then Jack pulls out a stainless steel cooler and slides it under the table. Bitty eyes it with curiosity. He’s never seen Jack bring a cooler to the market before. As Jack straightens up, Bitty looks away. He can’t let himself become infatuated with this man.

Bitty’s still arranging his baked goods when a shadow falls across his table. He looks up, straight into the eyes of Jack Zimmermann. “Hi. Hello! Good morning,” Bitty stammers.

“Good morning, Bittle. How did those peaches work out for you?”

“Oh, terrific! Perfect peaches for pie,” Bitty says, blushing at the unintentional alliteration of his words.

Jack grins. “Glad to hear it. And our deal?”

Bitty grins back. “I have your pie right here,” he says, picking up the ribbon-tied box and passing it to Jack.

Jack accepts it, his fingers brushing Bitty’s as he takes the pastry box from him. Bitty’s hands tingle with Jack’s touch, and he wants so badly to believe it was intentional. “Fancy. Do you always tie ribbons on your pies?”

“Only for special customers,” Bitty replies, and immediately regrets his words. He scans Jack’s face for any signs of disgust or rejection, but finds none. If anything, Jack’s smile grows.

“I’m flattered. By the way, I have something for you too, but I think it’ll be best if I give it to you after the market ends, if that’s all right.”

“I - well thank you - but that wasn’t part of our deal,” Bitty blurts out.

“This is my treat. No strings, I promise.”

“Well - if you insist, I certainly won’t refuse a gift,” Bitty says, racking his brain to think of what Jack could’ve brought him that he couldn’t just give to Bitty now.

“Great. I’ll come over after the market ends.” Jack walks back to his stall with a little wave.

Bitty doesn’t know how he’s going to last for the next five hours.

* * *

Two o’ clock rolls around sooner than Bitty expects. He’s done a roaring trade today; it helped that there was some sort of street festival nearby, and people stopped by the farmer’s market on their way. He’s sold out of just about everything except one loaf of zucchini bread that will probably end up being his lunch today. Jack apparently did a good business too; most of his crates are going back on the truck empty. Bitty idly wonders what’s in that cooler under the table, the one that Jack unloaded last and never touched during the market.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, though, because Jack is walking across to his stall, hefting the cooler.

“What’s this?”

Jack sets the cooler down carefully on Bitty’s table. “This is for you.” He opens it up. Nestled on a bed of ice are several packages wrapped in butcher paper and labeled in a careful hand. “I don’t sell any of our beef at the market because it requires extra permits. But this is grass-fed, free-range Angus. Tender beef, good marbling. I’ve got a tenderloin that you can cut up into filets, a package of ribeyes, some ground beef, and some stew meat.”

“This is - Jack, I - all of it?” Bitty’s voice cracks.

“Yeah. I’ve got plenty more on the farm. I just picked out a few choice cuts for you.”

Bitty is reeling. The market price for the beef in this cooler is easily over $100, and Jack is just _giving_  it to him. “Jack, this is - this is wonderful, but I wouldn’t feel right accepting this as a gift. Please let me pay you.”

Jack’s face falls. “But I want to give it to you.”

Jack’s earnestness, and the sadness in his face at the apparent rejection of his gift, makes Bitty’s heart flip in his chest. _What if…what if?_  Bitty swallows hard. Jack’s hands are still holding the lid of the cooler open, and Bitty covers them with his own.

“Thank you, Jack. This is a wonderful, generous gift. Would you at least… let me cook some of it for you? To share? With me?”

Jack’s face lights up like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “I would love that,” he says, smiling broadly. He closes the cooler, and takes Bitty’s hands in his. “When?”

“Uh… is tonight too soon? Around seven?”

“Tonight is perfect.”

Now it’s Bitty’s turn to smile, and it’s not lost on him that Jack is still holding his hands. “Well I better get going then, so I can pick up a few things at the store before you come over.”

Jack laughs and lets go of Bitty’s hands so he can latch the cooler. “Can I load this up for you?” he asks.

“Sure, my truck’s just over there. It’s unlocked.” Bitty gestures to the old Ford Bronco behind his stall.

Jack takes the cooler and loads it into the back of Bitty’s truck. Bitty finishes packing up his stall, and Jack helps him take down the tent, deftly disassembling it and stowing it in the storage bag. They finish loading up Bitty’s truck in silence, and then they’re standing next to the driver side door.

“Well, I guess I’d better be going, then,” Bitty says. “See you at seven?”

“Sure. There’s just one problem though.”

“What’s that?”

Jack smirks. “I don’t know where you live.”

“Oh!” Bitty blushes madly. He fishes a business card out of his pocket. “Just come to the bakery. I live above it.”

“Nice commute,” Jack deadpans.

Bitty laughs. “Can’t beat the drive time,” he replies.

“I’ll be there at seven. And I’ll bring the pie.”

“You don’t have to! The pie is for you.”

“I think it’d be more fun to share it,” Jack says softly.

Bitty melts inside. “Yeah. Yeah I think it would.”

“Get going, Bits. I’ll see you soon, eh?”

“ _Bits_? My nickname is _Bitty_.”

Jack chuckles. “Oh, must’ve remembered it wrong. I’ve been thinking of you as Bits all week.”

Bitty can’t keep up his feigned indignance at that admission. “You - you’ve been _thinking_ about me?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

Bitty pauses. Jack Zimmermann has been _thinking_  about him. He stands a little taller, feels a little bolder. “Not a thing. I’ll see you at seven, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says, grinning broadly as he climbs into his truck.

Jack shuts the door for him. “It’s a date, _Bits_.”


	3. Dinner by Candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By tiptoe39.

Bitty parks his car in the space around back and kicks the door shut. Cooler slung over one shoulder, arms laden with grocery bags, he stumbles around the corner and navigates nearly blind to the door of the bakery. He slams his hip against the door, and it falls open to the sound of jingling bells.

"Welcome-- oh, hi, Bitty!" Somehow Chowder can tell it's him even through the forest of bags. Either that or Bitty's the only one who shoves his body into the door on a regular basis. "Why didn't you come in through the back?"

"Because the back requires _hands_ ," Bitty says as he eases his way behind the counter and back through the kitchens, "and I've got none to spare." He does, however, need hands to open the door to his apartment, so he drops all the bags with a clutter of ker-thunks when he reaches the top of the stairs and fumbles for his key.

"Do you need help?" Chowder calls up from the bottom of the staircase.

"You man your post, soldier," Bitty calls down. "I'll be right back."

"Yes, sir!" Chowder salutes him and returns to the counter.

Bitty gets to work putting away the groceries. Fennel, zucchini, carrots and celery stalks; little button mushrooms and broccoli florets; greens and dressing for salad; spices and sauces; two bottles of red wine. When everything’s arranged, vegetables packed into the already-stuffed refrigerator and spices and wine arranged on the counter, Bitty turns his attention to the cooler.

Jack gave him an accounting of the meat packed within, and Bitty was full of ideas as he walked down the aisles of the grocery store, picking up enough fixings to make any number of recipes. But by now he’s pretty sure he knows what he wants to prepare tonight. He’s thinking of the tenderloin, soaked in a red wine marinade and cooked medium rare. Jack seems like a steak man.

Jack. Bitty leans back on his kitchen counter and lets out a little sigh. To think that a week ago he didn’t know the man’s first name. Now the word _Jack_ feels at home on his tongue, a slip of sweetness light as pastry. A word made to roll off Bitty’s lips. He tries it out, whispers it into the empty kitchen. It sounds as sweet as it tastes.

Bitty washes his hands, then pulls the tenderloin from the cooler and unwraps it. The beef is gorgeous -- lean and fresh, the color and cut close to perfect. “Lord,” he says aloud, “you are beautiful, aren’t you?” He turns it over in his hand, marveling at the trimming and the evenness of the cut. It will cook beautifully in Bitty’s oven, and as it does, the aroma will fill the apartment. He can almost smell it now. Heavenly.

But all that depends on a good marinade and a good seasoning first. Bitty pulls a bowl from his cabinets. Into the bowl goes half a bottle of red wine, cumin, oregano, and a splash of balsamic vinegar. It’s not a recipe so much as a jazz solo -- Bitty adds each note according to what he feels, the anticipated tastes as real on his tongue as the song he’s humming. When he finally takes a real taste, everything’s just as he imagined it. He smiles, dutifully cuts the tenderloin, eases the filets into marinade bags with the sauce, and refrigerates them.

Preparation complete for now, he heads back down to the bakery. Chowder is taking advantage of the quiet to roll some dough for a pie. “Something for Farmer?” Bitty asks, by way of greeting.

“She liked the pecan pie a couple of weeks ago,” Chowder answers brightly. “Of course, _you_ made that one.”

“We made it,” Bitty corrects. “It was a team effort.”

Chowder nods. “Anyway, I thought  I’d  try to make a little one for her. Since there’s nobody in the store at all. Oh, is that all right?” Worry knots his brow.

Bitty laughs. Chowder is nothing if not eager to please. “You know what I say,” he teases  Chowder. “Bake whatever you like for yourself, so long as you pay for it.”

“Oh, of course!” Chowder nods happily and returns to rolling.

“So you two have a date tonight?”

“Mm-hm!” As Chowder flattens the dough and reaches for a pie dish, he beams happily. “We were going to go see that movie about the shark. Then we could have dessert at my place.” He flushes a little at the innuendo. “Pie, I mean.”

Bless Chowder. He probably isn’t even planning anything beyond pie. And neither is Bitty, come to think of it. He’s having Jack over for dinner, but he isn’t expecting, or even hoping for, anything beyond that. Not that Jack isn’t desirable, or that Bitty hasn’t indulged in an idle fantasy or two while gazing at him from across the farmer’s market. But there’s a piece of him that wants to take this slow. The fact that Jack approached him at all still feels like a dream. Bitty’s half-afraid that if he says or does too much, he’ll wake up.

“You’re bright red,” Chowder observes.

Bitty starts. “I… what?”

“Nothing.” And Chowder continues to fold the dough into the dish. But his eyes linger on Bitty’s face -- which is, as Chowder implied, getting hotter by the minute.

“Oh, dear,” Bitty says, touching his flushed cheeks. “All right, all right. I _may_ have met someone.”

“Mm-hm?”

“And… and he _may_ be coming over tonight,” Bitty confesses.

“Oh!” Chowder grins, his cheeks pinking with delight. “That’s great, Bitty!” He leaves it at that, though -- where any other friend of Bitty’s would probably tease him a bit, Chowder is content with just being unabashedly happy for him. That’s just the way he is: a bright, innocent slice of California sunshine, shipped in from the West Coast to be Bitty’s right-hand man. He’s surprisingly good at the day-to-day minutiae of running a bakery, and he can pump out tarts and cookies like a machine. Bitty’s eternally grateful to have him around.

Bitty works until five, then excuses himself to go start the preparations. He’s got a lot to do in two hours -- not only has the food got to be prepared, but his apartment is looking abysmal -- cookbooks scattered here and there, the couch cushions uneven, the curtains half-drawn. And he’ll want to set the table and have everything just so before Jack arrives.

To think Jack Zimmermann, the man who’s captured so much of Bitty’s imagination for so long, is going to be here, in this apartment. Bitty finds himself spacing out, staring at the walls and grinning. He shakes himself out of it. Grabbing his phone, putting on some music, he starts the oven and gets to work.

By six, the apartment looks a damn sight better. The carpet is vacuumed and the living areas straightened up. There are flowers on the table and a number of tea lights strategically placed around the dining area. The steak’s been marinating long enough, and Bitty shuttles it from bags to pan to oven, then gets to work on salad and vegetables. He brought some dinner rolls up from downstairs, and Jack said he’d bring the pie, and that _should_ be all they need, right? He considers getting some more sweets from the bakery.  

Or maybe he’s overthinking this whole thing. _Remember,_ he thinks with a sinking heart. _There’s no guarantee he’s interested. This could just be a friendly dinner. A very nice friendly dinner with a gorgeous man who’s straighter than a loaf of French bread. Don’t get your hopes up, Bitty._

Too late for that. His hopes are already through the roof, like it or not.

* * *

It’s six-thirty, and Bitty still has to shower and get the kitchen scrubbed up. But the more he thinks about it, the more he's sure he needs something else to supplement dessert. He charges down the stairs to the bakery, hoping to pick up some tarts at the very least, and bursts through the kitchen toward the front counter.

He finds Jack Zimmermann already there.

He’s chatting with Chowder, who's paused in his post-closing sweep of the customer area to explain something to Jack with a number of exaggerated gestures. Jack nods, and gives a short laugh. When his gaze lifts, Bitty's caught dead to rights -- unshowered, unready, his face flushed from leaning over the vegetable pots and then running down the stairs, his hair probably everywhere at once.

Even so, Jack’s smile widens, and pale dots of color appear in his cheeks. “Hey.”

“Y---you’re early,” Bitty stammers.

“I am.” Jack shrugs.

“I’m not ready.” Bitty looks down over his plain T-shirt and shorts. He can feel Jack looking, too. When he glances up again, Jack's eyes are still on him, interest glittering there. Bitty doesn't know what to make of it.

"I can wait," Jack says.

Bitty's Southern hospitality genes kick in. "No, no, that's nonsense, come on up."

"If you insist." Jack picks up the pie, which has been sitting prettily in its box on the front counter. Bitty registers for the first time that Jack's other hand is closed around the neck of a bottle of wine. Bitty has, of course, bought his own bottle for the evening. So either they're going to drink a lot tonight, or Bitty will have plenty to drown his sorrows in tomorrow, when it turns out Jack is married with ten kids and five dogs.

He shakes the unpleasant thought away, wishes Chowder goodnight, and leads Jack upstairs. Jack steps across the threshold of his home with wide eyes and a pleasant smile, taking in the homey coziness of the space -- Bitty's thrift store couch, the crowded bookshelves, the set table just beyond the living area.

"Something smells good." Jack turns to him, a little smile on his lips.

Bitty is abruptly very aware of their proximity, and of his lack of hygiene. “I need to run in the shower and change,” he admits. “Have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

“You look fine,” Jack starts, but then he shakes his head. “Go ahead.”

Bitty’s halfway to the linen closet before he realizes the apartment’s set up such that the hallway is partially visible from the living room, meaning there’s a very good chance Jack will see him scurrying from bathroom to bedroom clad in a towel and nothing more. But it’s too late to turn back now.

He gets his butt into the bathroom and quickly scrubs himself clean. The whole time, he’s acutely aware that there’s a gorgeous man in his living room. He’s also cognizant of the absurdity -- it’s not like Bitty’s never been naked in a locker room with men before. But this is _different._ Jack’s not just some stranger, he’s a guest, and you don’t run around naked in front of guests. Unless you don’t have a choice.

When it’s time to run down the hallway, he decidedly _doesn’t_ check to see if Jack is looking.

Clean and dressed, he makes his way out of the bedroom to find Jack standing in the space between kitchenette and living room, surveying the array of dishes and pots scattered throughout. Bitty hurries in. “Oh, gosh, please don’t look, it’s a mess.”

“I can help clean.”

“What are you-- we haven’t even _eaten_ yet.”

“Less to do later, eh?” Jack moves forward, and Bitty’s momentarily stunned by the ease with which Jack inhabits his space. All this gorgeous man, and he looks as though he fits. Like he belongs in this tiny kitchen, scrubbing pots and humming, maybe in one of those flannel shirts (which, Bitty has noticed, is absent now; Jack’s cleaned up well, in a short-sleeved button-down and slacks). For an instant, Bitty dares to dream of a point in the future in which he and Jack might work in a kitchen side-by-side. And for another instant, he marvels at how easy that future is to imagine, despite the fact that Jack is a virtual stranger.

But that doesn’t mean he’s letting Jack clean up tonight. He inserts himself between Jack and the counter, arms spread wide. “Tsk! I don’t think so, Mr. Zimmermann. You just sit yourself down at the table and wait while I get everything all laid out and open up this wine. Don’t make me shake my whisk at you!”

Jack laughs, puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and obeys. He sits, smiling pleasantly as Bitty shuttles steak, salad bowl and vegetables from kitchen to table. His eyes never leave Bitty, and Bitty can feel it. What does Jack Zimmermann mean by that look? It could, Bitty supposes, be nothing more than casual interest. Or it could be something else, something that makes Bitty feel warm all the way down to his toes. He tries to tamp down on his imagination and pulls out a corkscrew to open the wine.

The cork comes out with a pop, and a rich aroma wells up from the bottle. Bitty serves Jack and himself; they clink and take first sips. Bitty makes an undignified noise at the taste. It’s a deep, full-bodied red, perfect for beef. “Oh, Lord,” he murmurs. “Don’t tell me you have a vineyard in addition to all those vegetables.”

“Afraid not,” Jack replies. “It’s my friend’s. He runs a vineyard a few miles out.”

Bitty lifts the bottle and looks at the label again. _Drunken Knight Vineyards_ , he reads. The illustration is of a fellow in a suit of armor with a dopey grin and a bottle in one hand. It isn’t the most elegant label he’s ever seen, but it does make him laugh. “Must be an interesting friend.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Oh, dear.” Bitty portions out the salad. The store-bought greens look pathetic in this light; if he’d known he’d be feeding Jack tonight, he would have bought some vegetables at the Zimmermann Farms stall. “So, then, Mr. Zimmermann. I know you avoid sweets and grow veggies. Tell me what I _don’t_ know about you.”

“Well.” Jack scratches the back of his neck. As they eat, he slowly paints a picture for Bitty of a life fallen into sideways. He never intended to take over the family farm, he says, but circumstances  didn’t work out in the direction he was planning to go. So he came back home, taking charge and allowing his parents to retire to sunnier climes. But he’s happy with his life now -- he likes growing things and raising things, and he gets on well with his staff. “Justin and Adam, in particular, are fun,” Jack says. “You’ve seen them at the market with me. They help man the booth and get things loaded.”

To be honest, Bitty hasn’t taken notice of anybody in that stall who’s not Jack. “Mm-hm,” he says politely.

“But you do everything by yourself at the market,” Jack observes. “I’ve never seen anyone else there with you.”

“Yes, well, I may be short, but I’m strong as an ox!” Bitty blusters.

“Yeah, I got that,” Jack says, very quietly, with a little nod. Bitty’s going to ask what he means, but then his mind flashes back to the shower he took and the little dash he had to make between bathroom and bedroom. Does this mean Jack _saw_ …. No. No, he’s just imagining things. Jack’s just talking about seeing Bitty carry boxes of baked goods back and forth from his car. Which… Jack would still have to be watching…. And if he’s never seen anyone with Bitty, does that mean he’s been watching Bitty since before…

Bitty’s brain gives him the blue-screen-of-death and goes violently offline. “Um. Well. Steak! We ought to eat the steak,” he says, hoping none of his frantic thoughts are showing on his face.

The meat, luckily enough, is the perfect distraction as Bitty’s brain reboots. It’s eye-rollingly, groan-worthily good, and Bitty does both as the first bite melts on his tongue. “Oh, my,” he murmurs, and across from him Jack make a similar noise of appreciation. The sip of wine to chase it down is the perfect companion, and Bitty feels warm all over, incandescent with good food and fascinating company.

Over dinner, Jack drags some of Bitty’s life out of him: Southern upbringing, hasty retreat beaten northward, culinary school and opening of the bakery. “You’re so young to have your own business,” Jack says.

Bitty’s used to hearing this. “I’m not that young,” he informs Jack flatly. “Twenty-six, thank you very much.”

“Really?” Jack’s eyes widen.

“They tell me I’ll be grateful for my genes when I’m sixty,” Bitty says. “For now, I’m a little sick of getting carded.”

“I can’t imagine.” There’s a low current of amusement in Jack’s voice. “I don’t think I’ve been carded in years.”

“Cry me a river,” Bitty says flatly, and Jack laughs. “Why, how old are you, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“Thirty-one.”

Bitty nearly drops his fork. “Thirty-one?”

“Is that a surprise?”

“No, _no_ , I just…” Bitty might pass out. There’s no way Jack is out of his twenties. No way. Not with that body, and those arms, and the broadness of his chest and the sweep of his hair and the smooth skin of his face and and and….

But then there’s that touch of sadness to his eyes, eyes that have seen something, _been_ through something. Bitty wants to know. He wants to ask a million questions. Everything about Jack calls out to him somehow. Invites his gaze, his fascination, his touch. Jack’s hand sits gently on the table, fingers long and curved, and Bitty itches to reach over and cover them with his own. But he doesn’t know yet what this is they’re doing. The words echo in his head again: _just a nice friendly dinner_.

Oh, he doesn’t want this to be just a nice friendly dinner. He really doesn’t.

He decides to say something, just to see if Jack picks up on it, if he protests. Taking another bite of the steak, he groans at the flavor. “This is not bad, if I do say so myself,” he crows. “Not a bad spread for a first date, wouldn’t you say? And we still have the pie to go.”

Jack blinks. “Oh, so this is really a date?”

Shit. Bitty’s heart sinks. He scrambles to recover. “Oh! Well, no, not if… That is, I certainly don’t want you to feel as if …. Well, gosh, you can think of it any way you’d like, of course!” Oh, God, he should just throw a napkin over his head before he says anything else embarrassing.

He meets Jack’s gaze, careful. Scared.

Jack’s holding back a grin. No, a laugh. “No, I think you’d better clarify things,” he says, trying his best to look serious and failing utterly.

Bitty fills with outrage, then amusement. “Mr. Zimmermann, are you teasing me? You know very well it’s a date, don’t you? You just wanted to see me trip over my own tongue. I should send you home without any pie!”

“Sorry,” Jack says between chuckles. “You get flustered easily and… it’s fun.”

“Jack… Jack Zimmermann, you’re a sadist--” Bitty stops abruptly, frowning. “Doesn’t it feel as though something ought to go in between there?”

“What?” Now Jack’s confusion isn’t feigned.

“Your name. You have a middle name, don’t you? Jack Something Zimmermann. I can just feel that something belongs there. What is it?”

“Laurent.”  

Bitty very nearly swoons. He didn't expect the smooth slide of the word, the guttural scrape of the foreign "r."  "Loren?" he echoes, not even attempting to replicate the pronunciation. "Like Sophia?"

Jack laughs, repeats the word, then spells it.

Bitty _ohhhs_ dramatically. "Are you French then?"

"Canadian," Jack says.

"Canadian? My goodness. I don't think I've met an actual honest-to-goodness Canadian before. I suppose you could tell me all kinds of things about moose. And poutine, and... and ice fishing."

A laugh spills from Jack's lips. "I know a thing or two about hockey. If that counts."

This time Bitty actually does drop his fork. "You... don't... _say_."

"What?"

Unable to fight down his grin, Bitty takes a long draught of his wine. “Well, Jack _Laurent_ Zimmermann, it seems we may have something else in common.”

* * *

By the time the steak is finished and the pie is served, Bitty’s informed Jack about his past as a figure skater, his turn to ice hockey in high school, and his current play with a community league. Jack asks all the right questions, knows a lot about the NHL that Bitty hasn’t bothered to keep up with, and lets slip a word or two that indicates he has some experience on the ice. But whenever Bitty asks him when he played or in what capacity, Jack gets quiet. “I’ve played a little,” is all he says.

Bitty shovels a slice of pie onto Jack’s plate. It’s been warming in the oven’s drawer since dinner, and it’s now piping hot, the peaches steaming slightly. Bitty’s pleased, when he takes that first slice, to discover the fruit is glistening and gorgeous, even after a day. Jack lights up as he sees it. Bitty wants to drown in that look. He’d gladly dedicate a day, a week, a year to making this man look that pleased and happy. It brightens the whole room.

“They’re really good peaches,” Bitty says. “Just perfect for baking. Lord, I miss walking under peach trees. In Georgia I used to go through the orchards and pick some for myself. Then me and my Mama would gather them all up and make pies and tarts and cobblers to beat the band. I’d like to see your orchard someday.”

“Why don’t you?” Jack says. “Come down to the farm. I’ll show you around.”

Bitty flushes. That… that feels like an invitation for a second date, but is it? “My goodness. When should I…”

“Whenever you can get away. Sometime this week?”

“Oh. Well!” Bitty’s falling all over his words. “The week’s so … that is, I work... I have to work. “

Jack’s face falls. “Oh. Of course.”

Somehow Jack’s disappointed expression is something Bitty _has_ to fix, right now. “But…um… I could have Chowder mind the store on Saturday, after the market! Or even Tango, if I have to. I could follow you on down afterward!”

“Yeah?” Hope sparks in Jack’s eyes, and he breaks into a smile -- not a wide grin, but a tiny thing, soft and subtle. It makes Bitty’s heart skip over itself clumsily. “That would work.”

“It’s a date, then?” Bitty says hopefully. “A… second date?”

Jack lifts one hand from the table and hesitates. Bitty’s gaze drops from Jack’s smile to his hand, hovering there, then dropping, soft and all-of-a-sudden warm, onto Bitty’s own. The contact lingers. Jack nods. Bitty stops breathing.

And then Jack’s pulling back, picking up his knife and fork, and digging into his pie. “So,” he says, casual as anything, “you have employees named Chowder and Tango? How did _that_ happen?”

* * *

Jack has three slices of pie, and is reflexively reaching for a fourth when Bitty takes it upon himself to cut him off. “That’s enough, mister!” he scolds. “You’ll make yourself sick.” He does not, however, deny Jack one last glass of wine as they sit on the living room couch and chat a bit more before the time comes to say goodnight.

Jack is a fantasy come true sitting there on Bitty’s couch, with one strong arm splayed out across the back cushion, his other hand curled around the stem of the wine glass. Bitty, at the other end of the couch, wants to sit back and just admire. The urge to touch is a low simmer in his blood. Not overwhelming, but there. He reaches out once and pats Jack’s knee while making a point, and Jack visibly flushes. The reaction stills Bitty’s hand. He doesn’t want to push too far, too soon.

But as they stand at the front door of the bakery at the end of the night, Bitty can’t help rising to his toes to plant a whisper of a kiss on Jack’s cheek.

“A peck,” he says, “for your peck of peaches.”

Jack smiles. For a moment Bitty thinks he’s going to lean in for a real kiss, but he stays put, only reaching out and touching Bitty’s arm. “I’ll see you next week,” he says, “at the market?”  Bitty nods. “And you’ll come out to the farm after?” When Bitty nods again, that lovely flush of pleasure rises in Jack’s face. “Good. I’ll see you then, Bits.”

When he’s gone, Bitty looks out the bakery door at the street for several minutes. A surreal feeling washes over him and fades, like he’s waking from a dream. That may have been the best first date he’s ever had. Jack’s so easy to talk to. So fascinating, so vibrant. And his looks aren’t bad either. A man like that was in Bitty’s apartment, casting eager eyes at Bitty and listening carefully to everything he had to say. Things don’t ever go this well. What if it’s all too good to be true?

Bitty shakes himself. Too good to be true or not, Jack did not end up helping Bitty clean, which means there’s a mountain of dishes left to be done. Bitty heads upstairs and gets to work. As he scrubs, he daydreams -- imagining Jack’s face next Saturday when they say good morning, the way his farm will look in the afternoon as Bitty drives past the gates. He imagines a dirt road leading to a red barn, cows standing in a grassy field, rows and rows of trees. The two of them walking through the orchard, peaches sitting ripe and heavy above them. Maybe Jack’s hand will be folded into his own.

Every shred of common sense Bitty has warns him to be cautious. But every beat of his heart is light with hope. He can’t help feeling as though he’s on the verge of something truly special.

Next Saturday can’t come soon enough.  


	4. Twilight and Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Jaradel.

"Someone looks happy this morning."

Jack turns around to see Justin Oluransi, one of his farmhands, smirking at him from the kitchen doorway. In the past, a comment like that might have irritated him, but not today.

"Yeah, I guess I am," he muses, sipping his morning coffee.

"It's a good look on you, boss," Justin says.

Jack nods. He's been managing the farm for several years, and for most of that time, it's been an escape from the life that everyone – himself included – thought he should've been living. He's found a peace here that he'd never known before, but he couldn't ignore the fact that something was still missing; something he couldn't quite put his finger on. After last night, though, he thinks he might have a clue what that is.

Jack drains his mug and sets it on the kitchen table. "We better get started," he says to Justin. "Those green beans won't pick themselves."

~~~

Jack usually has no trouble focusing on his work, but this week he's very distracted. Several times Justin and Adam have to repeat themselves to him because he's daydreaming – daydreaming! - and doesn't hear them the first time. He eats dinner alone, but now he's wishing that he had company, whereas before he was grateful for the solitude. His whole world has been turned sideways, and it's all Eric Bittle's fault.

Jack had no idea what would happen when he went to Eric's stall two Saturdays ago. He had been sneaking glances at the baker for weeks, but it also took him that long to work up the courage to actually walk across the church parking lot and talk to him. He never imagined that Eric would start flirting with him – it was flirting, wasn't it? – and that it would turn into a date, with another planned for this weekend.

_Mon Dieu_ , this weekend-!

Jack looks around his modest farmhouse with a newly critical eye. He's not a sloppy person by any means, but the only people who see the inside of his house with any regularity are Justin and Adam, and sometimes Shitty, when he comes over for a visit. Occasionally his parents travel down from their home outside of Montreal to stay with him, but having his parents here is not nearly the same thing as inviting a man over to visit – a man whom Jack desperately wants to impress. And as it's already Thursday night, he doesn't have much time.

After dinner, as he's hastily cleaning his house, he frets about the logistics of Eric's visit. They haven't really discussed it, other than to agree that Bittle would come out to the farm after the market ended on Saturday. But... then what? Is there something he's forgetting? Should he call Eric and make sure that they are, in fact, still on for Saturday? The mere thought of talking to someone on the phone usually spikes Jack's ever present anxiety, but the thrill he feels singing in his veins is something else. Excitement. Anticipation. He glances at his watch – it's too late to call now, the bakery is closed. He pulls out his wallet, and carefully removes Eric's business card from the windowed slot usually reserved for a photo of a loved one. He puts it up on his fridge with a magnet, and sets a reminder on his phone to call Eric in the morning.

~~~

The alarm goes off far too early, considering how late Jack stayed up cleaning, but it was worth it. All the main areas are tidied – great room, kitchen, and powder room – and the floors have been swept and mopped. He sits up, wincing at the stiffness in his lower back from all the cleaning, and checks his phone.

_Call Eric_ , it says on his lock screen. Jack's heart beats a little faster, a surge of adrenaline propelling him through his morning routine. _Call Eric_. He is equal parts scared and excited. Freshly showered and dressed, he goes to the kitchen where Eric's business card is tacked to the front of his refrigerator. His hands tremble a bit as he unlocks his phone and dials the unfamiliar number, hoping that Eric himself will answer.

"Bitty's Bakery, Eric Bittle speaking, how may I help you?"

"Bitty – uh, Eric – it's Jack. From the farmer's market." Jack's mouth feels like cotton.

"Jack! Hi, how are you? Wasn't expecting to hear from you today."

"Oh – well, if it's a bad time, I can call back--"

"Hush, don't be silly! I can talk now, what's on your mind?"

"Uh – well, uh, I just wanted to check that you still want to come out here Saturday?"

"Of course! I thought we'd agreed on that. Why, has something come up?"

"No, no, nothing's come up, I guess, uh, I just wanted to make sure, that's all." Jack is pacing nervously. Why, _why_ can't he talk like a normal human being?

"Jack." Eric's tone is warm. "Of course I want to come over. Do you want me to bring anything? Oh! I have a new pie I want you to try, I'll bring that!"

Jack relishes the sound of his name coming out of Eric's mouth; it sounds the way ripe berries taste, juicy and sweet. "Yeah, that sounds great. Only if you want to, though. I don't want you to go to any extra work."

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to," Eric says with a fond laugh. "Besides, you sort of inspired this particular recipe, so it's only fair that you should get to try it ahead of its debut at the shop."

"I – I did?"

Eric laughs, a bright and joyous sound that puts Jack at ease, and also makes his heart skitter. "Yes, you did. But I'm not gonna tell you what it is until you try it."

"I'm sure I'll like it, whatever it is."

"I hope you do! I mean, it's perfectly fine if you don't. I don't really know what you like and don't like--"

"I like sweet things."

"Oh, _goodness_." Eric's voice sounds a bit rough, and he clears his throat. "Well. Um. So, should I just follow you back to your farm on Saturday?"

"I was thinking that I'd let Justin and Adam take my truck back, and I'd ride with you, so I can show you how to get there." Jack's heart is rabbiting in his chest.

"Oh! Yes! That would be great!"

"So... it's a date?"

"It is most _definitely_ a date, Mr. Zimmerman. And I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

Jack breathes out slowly as his apprehension dissipates. "Right. Yeah, I guess I’d better get to work, eh? And let you get back to your work too."

"No rest for the weary," Eric says brightly, and Jack smiles. "See you soon, Jack."

"See you, Eric."

~~~

The farmer's market is torture.

Not that sales are bad – in fact, it's probably one of the busiest weekends Jack can remember. His produce is selling out quickly, and he, Justin, and Adam are so busy helping customers that they can't even take a break. From the quick glances over at Eric's stall, it appears that Bitty's Bakery is also doing quite well today. Eric catches him staring at one point and waves, smiling and bright-eyed. Jack feels that smile in his soul, and he waves back with a grin.

No, the torturous part is seeing Eric in a snug tank top and criminally short shorts. He's chatting with customers and bending over to get more baked goods out from under his table and _oh_ , Jack needs to stop looking right now or he's going to have a very visible problem. He distracts himself by rearranging produce in the crates, consolidating where he can and tidying up the display of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Justin sidles up to Jack. "Need us to do anything, boss?"

Jack blinks, coming out of his reverie. "Yeah, let's start loading these empty crates onto the truck. You and Adam will drive it back to the farm."

Justin cocks an eyebrow. "And how are _you_ getting back? Let me guess – your friend from the bakery?"

Jack feels his ears grow hot, but he pulls himself up to his full height, bringing himself eye to eye with Justin. "He's coming over afterward. I'm riding with him."

Justin's smile is warm and genuine. "Good deal. Holtz and I will take care of everything, don't worry." He claps Jack on the shoulder. "Told you it was a good look on you." He picks up a stack of empty crates and heads back to the truck. Jack watches as Justin walks over to Adam. They put their heads together in conversation, and then Adam looks over at Jack with a broad, toothy grin and a thumbs-up. Jack laughs. He's lucky to have Justin and Adam around. They came to him on a recommendation from Shitty, and he's never regretted hiring them.

Two o'clock rolls around soon enough, and Jack, Justin, and Adam make quick work of packing everything in the truck. Jack tosses the keys to Justin. "Drive carefully, boys. Take the rest of the day off once you unload everything."

Justin salutes him with a grin. "Aye aye, cap'n," he says, hopping into the cab with Adam and driving off with a wave.

Jack walks across the parking lot to Eric's stall. Eric is busy packing up, and he's bent over a large plastic tub when Jack reaches his table. Jack doesn't announce himself right away; instead, he admires the view of a small, pert bottom in blue athletic shorts with white trim.

Eric straightens up and turns around, jumping back a bit when he sees Jack standing there. "Good lord, Jack, you about gave me heart failure! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Jack says, grinning.

Eric's ears turn bright red, and a delicate blush colors his cheeks. "What am I going to do with you, Jack Zimmerman?" he stammers.

"Drive me home, I hope. I already sent my truck home with Justin and Adam."

Eric laughs. Jack loves his laugh, clear as crystal and warm like the sun. "Well I can certainly do that, if you don't mind me stopping at the bakery to unload and clean up."

Jack frowns. "Why do you need to clean up?"

"Why do I --" Eric makes a sweeping motion with his hand up and down as if to display his body as exhibit A. "Look at me, Jack! I'm wearing a tank top and gym shorts with sandals, and it's so dang hot today that even _that_ little bit of clothing is soaked through. I can't go to your farm looking like this!"

"I think you look great," Jack says quietly.

Eric opens and closes his mouth several times, speechless, then shakes his head with a wry grin. "Well, thank you, Jack, even if I _do_ think you need your eyes checked. I'd still feel better with a shower and a fresh change of clothes."

Jack chuckles. "So you'll be all clean and I'll be the sweaty, stinky one."

"Yes, but _you_ can shower when we get back to your house."

Jack doesn't say what he's really thinking – that he'd rather shower with Eric, and feel all that soft skin and those supple muscles under his fingers, wet and glistening. It's too soon for that, and he's not sure how Eric will take such a naked confession. Instead, he nods in agreement. "That sounds like a good idea."

"Well, don't just stand there, make yourself useful," Eric teases, lifting up a stack of lidded plastic storage bins and carrying them over to his Bronco. Jack picks up a stack and follows him. The sooner they get Eric's stall packed up, the sooner they can get going.

~~~

It's a short trip from the church to Eric's bakery. Jack and Eric unload the Bronco quickly, and then Eric runs upstairs to his apartment to shower and change. Jack sits down at a table by the window to wait. It had crossed his mind to follow Eric upstairs, but he decided against it; in spite of his desire to be intimate with Eric, he likes that they're taking this slow, that they're courting each other in a way that is almost old-fashioned. Somehow it makes the moments they spend together even more precious.

"Oh hey, Jack, didn't see you come in!"

Jack turns in his chair as Chowder walks out of the kitchen. "Oh, hey, Chowder. How's business?"

"Not bad. It's a bit slow around the shop when Bitty's at the farmer's market, a lot of his customers go there to see him. But I don't mind, it gives me time to get stuff done here!"

Jack smiles. He thought Eric was relentlessly cheerful, but he doesn't have anything on Chowder, who seems to find the bright side of every situation. "That's good," he says, trying to think of something to add, and coming up with nothing.

"So, Bitty's going back to your farm today?"

Jack's eyes widen. "He – he told you?"

"Oh yeah! He said he really enjoyed dinner with you last week, and he can't wait to see your farm!"

"Chowder, are you telling stories on me again?" Eric's voice echoes down the stairs.

Chowder has the good grace to blush. "Sorry, boss, I'll get back to work!" He waves at Jack sheepishly and ducks back behind the counter.

Eric comes out into the shop. He's wearing a green button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, a pair of pressed khaki shorts, and white canvas sneakers that draw attention to his tanned legs. His hair is soft and carefully styled, and Jack swears that he's glowing.

Eric steps closer, until he's just inches away from Jack. "Ready?" he asks, eyes twinkling.

Jack clears his throat. "Yeah."

Eric smiles broadly.  "Well, let's get going," he says, pulling his keys out. "We can walk through to the back."

Jack follows Eric through the kitchen and out the back door, where the Bronco is parked. He watches Eric climb into the driver's seat, mesmerized by the stretch of his surprisingly muscular thigh, then quickly goes around the back of the truck to get in the passenger side. He is suddenly grateful that he doesn't have to drive; he'd probably run off the road, looking at Eric.

"All right, Mr. Zimmermann, you need to tell me where to go."

"Head to Route 1 North, and then we'll get on 95 North."

~~~

The drive back to the farm is much faster with company, especially company as engaging as Eric Bittle. Eric keeps up a steady stream of conversation, filling Jack in on the happenings at the bakery and in the town of Samwell. Jack learns that Eric moved to Boston eight years ago to be closer to his then-boyfriend, but things didn't work out, and he transferred to Samwell University when the relationship ended. Samwell was a good fit in many ways for Eric, and after he graduated, he applied for a small-business loan to open a bakery in a former coffee shop. It wasn't easy, and Eric worked a lot of long hours, but eventually the business started turning a profit, becoming popular not only with Samwell residents, but customers from neighboring towns as well.

Jack sits back, still listening intently, but also letting Eric's voice wash over him. He knows he's falling hard, and he doesn't know if he can stop himself at this point. Truthfully, he doesn't want to. It's been so long since he felt like this about anyone. He didn't know how much he missed it until now.

Jack sits up as they approach his exit, and he directs Eric along the back roads to his farm. It's a beautiful day, and Jack can't remember the last time he was able to take in his farm from this perspective. Usually he's just too busy to notice the beauty of it - the gently rolling hills of the pastures, the rows of fruit trees in the orchard, his modest farmhouse, and the large, gambrel-roofed barn.

The sight is not lost on Eric. "Jack, this is _gorgeous,_ " he gasps, his eyes wide.

Jack smiles. He'd hoped that Eric would be pleased, but he didn't expect this level of awe. "Do you want the full tour?"

"Oh lord, _yes_!"

Eric parks his Bronco next to Jack's truck and they hop out, gravel crunching under their feet as they meet in front of it. "What do you want to see first, Bits?"

"The orchard. _Definitely_ the orchard."

Jack laughs and extends his hand toward Eric, who tangles his fingers with Jack's. They set out along the path from the driveway to the orchard beyond. The trees are planted in neat rows, the branches forming canopies along the paths. Jack describes the varieties of apples and peaches available, and basks in Eric's wide-eyed amazement.

"Jack, this is _amazing_. The pies I could bake for you!"

"Just say the word, Bits. You can have first pick anytime."

Eric stops and looks at Jack with an expression of wonder, as if Christmas has come early. Jack can barely contain his desire to kiss Eric right then and there, with the sun shining on Eric's blond hair, creating a halo effect. It's the perfect moment.... and then Jack remembers that he has yet to take a shower. Sighing inwardly, he squeezes Eric's hand. "C'mon, Bits, wait until you see the vegetable garden. Do you like pumpkins?"

They spend an hour touring the farm. Jack has rarely talked this much in his life, but around Eric, the words just flow. He explains why he chose to plant certain vegetables, when he started raising cattle, and how the pond freezes over in the winter, allowing him to skate. He's tired and a little hoarse as they walk back to the house. Eric's face is flushed, but he's smiling broadly and keeping pace with Jack in spite of his shorter legs.

"So is this the original farmhouse?" Eric asks, as they climb the steps to the deck.

"Part of it is. My grandparents added on to it when they took over the farm in the '60s, and then my parents had the deck rebuilt before moving to Montreal. The old farmhouse is the great room, the kitchen, and the upstairs loft. My grandparents added the bedrooms and bathrooms." Jack opens the French door leading into the great room and holds it for Eric. Eric walks past him, and Jack catches a whiff of something he can only describe as summer – fresh cut grass, peaches, and Eric's unique scent. It sends a thrill through his body.

Eric glances around quickly, then makes a beeline to his right. "Jack, your kitchen is enormous!" he says, walking around the kitchen table. He turns around slowly, taking in the antique cabinetry, the large window over the sink, the timeworn butcher board countertops.

Jack laughs. "Should've known that's what you'd notice first," he says, joining Eric. "It was much smaller before my grandparents moved in. My grandmother loved to cook, and insisted that the kitchen be remodeled with modern appliances – well, modern for 1968. They've been replaced a couple of times since, except for the stove."

Eric walks over to the range, and Jack thinks for a moment that Eric's about to swoon. "Jack – this is a vintage Aga cast-iron range! With three ovens!" He runs his hands over it reverently, opening the oven doors and inspecting the hot plates. Jack leans one shoulder against the fridge and watches, amused. Eric looks good in his kitchen, standing at his stove. It's a sight he could definitely grow accustomed to seeing on a regular basis.

Eric makes a circuit around the kitchen and then ends up in front of Jack, standing quite close to him. "This is some place you have here, Mr. Zimmermann," he says with a grin.

"You haven't even seen the rest of the house," Jack points out, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Oh I'm pretty sure I could live quite happily in your kitchen," Eric says breezily, then his eyes go wide and he claps his hand over his mouth. "Oh my god, I didn't mean – that was – " Eric covers his face in his hands, a moan of anguish muffled behind them.

Jack laughs now, a full-throated belly laugh, and distantly he wonders when he's laughed that hard before. "It's okay, Bits, I knew what you meant. Besides, I think I'd like having you here. In my kitchen."

Eric peeks out from behind his hands, drawing them away slowly. His cheeks are bright pink, but his expression is hopeful. "You mean that?"

Jack nods, and holds out his hand. Eric slides his smaller hand into Jack's larger one, smiling softly. "Come on, there's more to see. And then I'll need to take a shower myself."

Jack pretends he doesn't notice Eric blushing madly.

~~~

Standing in the shower, letting the water sluice over him, Jack feels his anxiety ebbing. Eric is here. Eric is on his farm, in his home, and by all accounts is making himself quite comfortable, if the aroma of baking biscuits is any clue. He had asked Jack if he could contribute something to their meal besides the mystery pie he brought, and Jack gave him carte blanche to make whatever he wanted with the ingredients available to him.

Jack's anxiety isn't completely gone, though; he still needs to cook supper. Jack's no great chef like Eric, but he's good with the basics; grilled ribeyes and oven-cooked baked potatoes with steamed green beans straight from his own garden. The ribeyes are currently marinating in Worcestershire sauce and seasoning salt, which will enhance the flavor of the tender beef. He runs through his mental timetable for the supper – potatoes in first, then ribeyes on the grill, and last the green beans on the stovetop. And Eric's biscuits, which smell heavenly.

Jack dresses casually, in a black t-shirt and khaki shorts. He walks through the house to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to take in the view of Eric bustling about as if he belongs there. Eric turns and flashes a broad smile. "Biscuits are in the oven! Won't take them long to bake, but I can keep them warm if you have a bowl and a clean dishtowel."

Jack moves forward, retrieving the requested items for Eric, then setting about preparing the baked potatoes. He and Eric move fluidly around each other in the kitchen, never getting in each other's way; it's an effortless dance made more remarkable by the fact that they really haven't known each other that long. He preheats the smallest of the Aga's three ovens, and when it's ready, he pops the foil-wrapped potatoes into the oven. Eric's leaning against the counter, watching the timer for his biscuits, but his eyes are also following Jack, which makes Jack blush self-consciously. Determined to get this dinner started, he pulls the marinating ribeyes out of the fridge and sets them on the counter, then goes outside to start the fire in the charcoal kettle grill on the deck. Eric follows him out, so quiet that Jack doesn't even notice him at first. Once Jack gets the fire built, he covers the grill to allow it to heat up.

"Gosh, Jack, this is a beautiful view," Eric says, leaning on the deck railing.

Jack joins him, mirroring Eric, his forearms resting on the railing, hands folded. It is beautiful, but Jack rarely takes the time to notice. Now he sees it anew – the vegetable garden, with its patchwork of beds; the neat rows of apple and peach trees in the orchard, the cattle pastures beyond, and the setting sun touching all of it with a deep golden glow. He turns his head to look at Eric, then, and his breath catches. The deck faces northwest, and Eric, to his left, is lit up by the sun, his body enveloped in a halo of light. Eric turns to look at him, deep brown eyes twinkling, a soft smile playing across his lips. Jack feels his cheeks heat up, and it's not from the sun – or maybe it _is_ from the sun. He clears his throat and averts his eyes. "Guess I better get those steaks on the grill," he says, his voice thick.

~~~

They dine on the deck in the twilight, illuminated by white lights strung around the deck railing. Jack is pleased with his efforts; the ribeyes are tender and juicy, the potatoes cooked just right, the green beans vibrant and just a bit crisp. And Eric's biscuits are the perfect complement – buttery, flaky, and moist. Jack brought out a bottle of Shitty's merlot to serve with dinner, and the flavor compliments the steaks well. Dinner is a quiet affair; Jack takes it as a positive referendum on his simple cooking that Eric doesn't say much until he's done. They decide to wait a bit before digging into the pie that Eric brought, electing instead to watch the stars come out. Jack quickly clears the plates, refusing to let Eric help, and then refills their glasses. There are a pair of weathered Adirondack chairs on the deck, and Jack and Eric settle into them with their wine, listening to the crickets chirping and the soft music playing from Jack's phone, hooked up to a pair of outdoor speakers.

Jack finally feels the last vestiges of his anxiety uncurl from his spine; it might be the wine, the food, or the company, or a combination of the three. He glances over at Eric, whose cheeks are flushed from the wine. Eric looks back at him, and Jack's heart speeds up. The look in Eric's eyes is intense, almost too much for him to handle. Jack feels glued to his chair. He wants to get up, to go to Eric and offer his hand, to ask Eric to dance with him, as the stars appear above them, and build upon their easy choreography from earlier that day. He wants so much, and doesn't know how to say it.

As if sensing Jack's dilemma, Eric sets his wine glass on the small table between them and gets up, moving to stand in front of Jack. He offers his hand. "Mr. Zimmermann, will you dance with me?"

Jack is slipping his hand into Eric's before he even finishes his question. He stands, and joins Eric in the middle of the deck. Their hands intertwine as he slides his free arm around Eric's shoulders, and Eric's arm wraps around his waist. They're not really dancing, more like shuffling in place, but Eric's body is warm against Jack's, his head tucked under Jack's chin, and there is nowhere that Jack would rather be. He wants to freeze this moment in time, hold on to it, take it out on days when the world is pressing in on him so he can remember what it's like to feel content.

Eric shifts, and Jack looks down. His gaze meets Eric's, and the earth stops rotating. Eric's eyes are soft, his pink lips parted, and Jack knows instinctively that _this_ is the moment, there's no going back, and he tips forward into the glorious unknown.

The first touch of their lips is chaste, gossamer-light. Jack pulls back, just a fraction, to look at Eric's face. His eyes are closed, his lips still parted, and he's _here_ , he's here in Jack's arms, and Jack loses himself in the moment. He dips his head again, and this time Eric responds eagerly, his arms tightening around Jack's waist, his body pressed close against Jack. Jack's hand cups the back of Eric's head, fingers smoothing the short hairs there, his other hand splayed against Eric's back. It's Eric who ultimately deepens the kiss, and the tip of his tongue brushing against Jack's lips pulls an involuntary moan out of him. They kiss and they taste, wine on their lips and fire under their skin, and Jack isn't falling, he's flying.

Eric pulls back first, his lips reddened and eyes bright. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," he says, breathless.

"I don't, but I know I want to keep doing it," Jack says, his hand moving to Eric's jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

Eric smiles mischievously. "I don't have anywhere else to be."

They come together again, and this kiss has an edge of passion, of searching and seeking and not quite getting close enough to satisfy either of them. Their hands are roaming eagerly, touching and stroking, nothing off limits anymore. They break apart, panting, and Jack presses his forehead to Eric's.

"I don't want this night to end," he whispers, suddenly afraid that he'll wake up to discover that Eric was never here, that it never happened.

"It doesn't have to," Eric replies, pulling back just enough to drop soft kisses on Jack's cheeks, the tip of his nose, his forehead.

Jack shudders. He doesn't know if he should say what he wants to say, doesn't know if he can handle being let down if he's misjudged the situation, but he's even more afraid of letting this, letting Eric, slip through his fingers.

"Will you stay? Please? Stay tonight?"

Eric takes Jack's face in his hands, tilting it so Jack is looking right into Eric's eyes. He's smiling – Eric is smiling – and Jack knows what his answer is.

"Have you ever had pie for breakfast?"

 


	5. Two Kinds of Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by tiptoe39. Except for the pie recipe, which is by jaradel.

A burst of light wakes Jack. The great room’s doors have been thrown open, the morning sunlight streaming in. Jack blinks and uncurls one arm from around Eric’s body, stretching and yawning.

“Yo, boss!” Justin’s shouting, making his way across the great room toward the bedrooms. “Dude, you oversle-- holy shit!”

He’s turned now and seen the tangle of limbs that is Jack and Eric, sprawled out together on the couch. The TV is still on, reflecting pale patterns of light onto the wooden floor at their feet. Eric stirs in Jack’s embrace, opening one eye and reaching up to rub the sleep away.

“Crap!” Adam’s come to a screeching halt next to Justin, and he’s holding onto Justin’s sleeve as though he’s afraid he’ll lose his balance. His eyes, huge behind his glasses, are taking in the scene like it’s a car wreck. “What the hell is this?”

“S-sorry!” Justin gathers himself and starts to push Adam backward toward the door. “We didn’t realize you had company.”

“ _Still_ had company,” Adam chimes in.

“Whatever. We’ll, uh, we’ll give you a few minutes.”

Adam leans forward. “We’ll be _right_ outside.”

Justin shoves him a few steps further. “Yeah. Yeah. We’ll be outside.” And with that, the two of them retreat behind the French doors.

Eric yawns. “Lord,” he murmurs, “what’s that racket?”

“Just the boys,” Jack says, dropping a soft kiss on Eric’s temple. “I guess it’s morning.”

“Already?”

“Afraid so.”

Jack doesn’t want to extricate himself from this perfect position, curled around Eric’s sleep-warm frame. But he manages somehow, pulling himself upright and laying a still half-dozing Eric down onto the couch before creeping to the bathroom. He grabs a towel and heads into the shower, a low buzz of pleasure still moving in his veins, all the places where Eric’s skin touched his still warm with the impression. Jack takes in a long breath of steamy air and lets his mind drift back to last night.

They didn’t end up sleeping together, although every cell of Jack’s body was vibrating with the need for it. Out on the deck, with the white lights shimmering around them like tiny planets in the dark, they’d danced a little more, and kissed a little more than that. Eric was pliant and impossibly sweet in his arms, soft mouth melting under his kisses, slender fingers holding onto Jack’s shoulders and neck with surprising strength. They kissed until they were dizzy, then sank down into the chairs to drink more wine and grin at each other shyly in the deepening night.  

“I haven’t been kissed like that in I don’t know how long,” Eric had said, a rosy blush playing over his cheeks, and Jack had lifted one hand to touch that glow, feel its warmth. They’d held hands and spoken a few soft words, but mostly they just let the night fall over them, the gentle warmth between their bodies saying everything that needed to be said.

When Eric shivered with the chill of a New England summer night, Jack rose from his chair and guided Eric by the hand back inside. Eric made for the piled-up stack of dishes near the sink before Jack could say no, and they washed the plates together, laughing and half-dancing around. Eric plunged his hands fearlessly into the soapy water in the sink, scrubbing as though this were his bakery’s industrial-strength pots and pans. Jack laughed. “Gentle,” he said, coming up behind Eric, reaching out to circle his waist. “Gentle.”

Eric swayed in his arms, easing up on the poor dishes. “Better?” he murmured. His hips dragged warmly against Jack’s.

Jack kissed his ear. “Better.”

By the time the last dish was done, the heat between them had built up to another unbearable threshold. Jack hoisted Eric up onto the counter and pressed between his knees, kissing him thoroughly. Eric lifted his legs to wrap around Jack’s waist. They were plastered together, touching, exploring. Eric’s moans echoed musically against the tile. Jack was two seconds away from lifting Eric into his arms and carrying him to the bedroom when Eric broke away, panting, and held on tight to Jack’s shoulders.

“Jack,” he panted, “oh, oh, Jack, hold on, hold on.”

Breathlessly Eric apologized, over and over, and Jack apologized too -- for no other reason than because he felt he should. They slowed, they stopped, they caught their breath. Eric lifted his lips into a smile.

“I still want to stay over,” he said, “very much. Very, very much. But I’m… this is… it’s wonderful and amazing and so fast, and I’m scared.”

“Okay.” Jack pressed the word into Eric’s forehead along with soft kisses. “Okay, okay. Whatever you want, Bits. Whatever you want.”

“Can we just… sit down for a while?” Eric nodded across at the couch. “Maybe watch something? And just…”

“Cuddle?” The word sounded as funny as it felt coming out of Jack’s mouth.

But Eric lit up. “Yes. Yes, exactly. Cuddle.”

In the end, they sat together on the big couch, half-watching history documentaries on the television. They talked a little, kissed and touched some more, but always pulled back before things got too heated. As the night wore on, old black-and-white footage from days long past played them into a doze.

And then they woke up to Justin and Adam’s shouts, and, well, here they are. Or, at least, here Jack is, standing in the shower with the water getting cold, feeling more than a little guilty for utterly forgetting that Sunday is just another day on the farm.

* * *

After he emerges from the shower and dresses, Jack discovers a party in his kitchen. Justin and Adam have parked themselves at the round table and are chowing down on pieces of Eric’s mystery pie. Adam looks up at Jack with a face full of food. “Jffk, yff gfft to trff thffs,” he says, pointing at the pie in the center. Jack sees now that it’s layered with rows and rows of delicate pecans.

“Shh,” Eric says as he trips lightly from table to counter. “Don’t give away the surprise. Let me get you some coffee, Jack!” Jack marvels at how gracefully Eric moves about his kitchen, like he owns the place and Jack’s just a guest in his own home. He suspects that Eric would move with similar purpose in any kitchen in the world. If there’s an oven and countertops, Eric Bittle is at home.

He moves past the table and joins Eric at the counter. “I see you’re making yourself comfortable.” Eric glows up at him.

The urge to kiss him is too strong. Jack surrenders, leaning down to drop a soft peck on his lips. Eric beams. Justin and Adam break into twin “awwww”s. A ball of happiness bobs in Jack’s heart. Coffee and a gentle kiss shouldn’t make him this giddy. But it does, Eric does, and Jack wants to do something uncharacteristic to express his joy. Shout, maybe, or dance. Something.

He settles for taking his coffee mug from Eric’s outstretched hand and settling down at the table. “Pecan pie?”

“With a twist,” Eric says over his shoulder. “Go on, try it.”

Jack does. The sweet crunch of the pecans is as luscious as he expected, but Eric was right -- there’s something unexpected in the recipe, something that wallops him with a wash of sweetness and makes him groan. He savors the bite, swallows, takes another. “Oh, God,” he murmurs after the second rich taste. “What is it?”

“You like it?” Eric’s voice is full of joy. “I substituted in maple syrup. A Canadian touch.” Jack’s eyes go wide. Eric laughs. “I told you, you inspired it!”

“Jack,” Justin says, leaning forward, “where did you find this one? Can we keep him?”

Adam frowns. “You know where he found him,” he says, “and what do you want to do, keep him in the grain silo and let him out to bake pies?”

“Well,” Justin says, “I was _thinking_ the barn…”

Eric laughs. “All right, y’all, cut that out right now. Unfortunately, I can’t live in your barn. I have a shop of my own to attend to.” His gaze flies to Jack. “We open at 11 on Sundays, so I’ll have to be back by about 10 to start baking. Plenty of time for breakfast, but after that, I’ll need to jet on out of here.”

“Of course.” Jack nods. “We could finish breakfast and take a walk before you have to go.”

“That’d be great.” Eric beams at him.

“Oh, God,” Adam groans. “Jack, we gotta start work too, you know.”

Jack glances at him in some confusion. “So start,” he says. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Mm-hm.” Adam shoves another piece of pie in his face.

Justin lobs him a sidelong look. “‘Chill, dude.” He faces Jack. “You guys have a good time and we’ll meet you later.”

“I promise not to keep him long,” Eric says solemnly. “We all got our work to do.”

* * *

Despite Eric’s promise, they end up lingering under the shade of the fruit trees for several minutes, hands loosely joined, just taking in the atmosphere together. The morning sunlight is still orange-tinted as it falls over the leaves, and Jack can’t stop looking at Eric bathed in it, like someone’s dipped him in gold. Eric talks a blue streak about how he wishes he could stay and hand-pick the best fruit from his trees. “Oh, what my mother would say about a place like this,” he says, turning happily in place as his eyes take in the sight of fruit after luscious fruit. “We’d pick your trees dry together and then make so many tarts you’d never see the end of them.”

“I’d like to watch you bake sometime,” Jack says. “See how a master does it.”

“Oh, Jack, you,” Eric says, laughing. “Well, come on up to the bakery sometime this week. We could make some cookies together, at the least. They don’t take long.”

Jack can feel his smile straining his muscles, but he doesn’t care one bit. “I’d like that.”

He steps into Eric’s space then, leans down as he tips Eric’s chin up, and kisses him for a long, golden moment in the gentle morning breeze. Eric shivers -- though there’s no chill in the morning air -- and presses closer. They hold each other, listening to the hiss of the wind and, a minute later, the faraway growl of the tractor.

“I’d better go make sure they don’t ruin my fields,” Jack says at the sound.

“Ahahah. And I’d better go get some flour on the countertops, or Tango will probably start rolling dough without it.” Eric squeezes his hands. They gaze at each other another minute, then come together for one last, slow and sweet kiss. Jack can still feel it tingling on his lips as he walks Eric to his car, then stands, grinning and waving, as Eric drives away.

Then, with light in his heart, he heads out to the fields to meet Justin and Adam for a day of work.

* * *

ERIC

_3:14 p.m.  
_ _Lord, I can’t stop myself, I’ve made two more of those maple pecan pies. Selling slices in the front of the shop now._

3:16 p.m.  
Do people like them?

_3:16 p.m._  
_So far, so good!_  


_3:23 p.m.  
_ _Jack… I hope this isn’t, I don’t know, the wrong time or too soon… but I had such a good time with you last night._

_3:23 p.m._  
_And today. Both._  


3:25 p.m.  
I’m so glad. I had a great time too.

_3:26 p.m.  
_ _I’m so glad to hear that!_

_3:31 p.m.  
__And… do you still want to come into town sometime this week_?

3:32 p.m.  
Heh. I was just about to ask you if it was still okay with you.

_3:32 p.m._  
_Really? *^_^*_

3:33 p.m.  
Is that supposed to be a face?

_3:34 p.m._  
_Oh, dear. Yes, Jack, it’s a blushing face._  


_3:34 p.m._  
_But … what about Thursday? Just come on in anytime._  


3:35 p.m.  
Thursday it is.

3:35 p.m.  
I can’t wait.  
  


* * *

They talk on the phone Tuesday after a Monday that feels oddly quiet. Jack doesn’t usually spend a lot of time on his phone, especially with all the hands-on work he has to do in a day, but he’s oddly disappointed, as he jogs back into the house on his way to his afternoon shower, to discover Eric didn’t text him. He chews on that thought as he scrubs clean -- how can he miss someone he’s just barely getting to know? He considers calling that night, but decides against it. He shouldn’t seem too eager. He doesn’t want to scare Eric off. But when the call comes in Tuesday, he’s delighted -- and relieved.

“I just thought I’d check in,” Eric says, breezy. Jack can imagine him carrying a tray of muffins, crumb tops steaming, and shrugging the phone close to his ear as he moves through the kitchen. The image makes him smile. “We texted about it, but I wanted to make sure Thursday works for you.”

_Tell me to come in tonight and I’ll get in my car,_ Jack thinks impulsively. God _,_ he is so gone. “Yeah. Thursday is great. I figure I can get into town between 6:30 and 7?”

“I’ll make sure the ovens are free, and clear the boys on out of here,” Eric says. “We’re still gonna be making cookies, right? That’s what we talked about?”

“Yeah.” Jack hears his voice go breathy. Just the thought of being in the same room with Eric again is filling him with a shivery thrill. Watching him work, rolling dough beside him, lifting him up onto one of those counters as the smell of baking cookies fills the air, kissing the taste of chocolate out of his mouth… “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Jack.” There’s something wonderful in the way Eric leans on the word. “Me, too.”

If only there were some way to reach out through the phone lines and kiss him. Jack tries to tamp down on the racing of his heart. “Anyway,” he says, moving through his kitchen, remembering Eric’s presence. “How was your day?”

* * *

Jack’s vibrating with excitement as he drives in Thursday evening. Eric warned him not to wear anything he didn’t want to get flour on, so he’s dressed casually, T-shirt and jeans. On his better days, he likes to think it’s a good look on him. He certainly hopes Eric thinks so. He checks his reflection nervously in the glass of the bakery’s door before taking a breath, knocking firmly, and pushing the door open.

Eric is sitting in one of the customer seats, reading a magazine. He throws it down and jumps to his feet when Jack arrives. “Jack, hi.” Just two words, but Eric infuses them with all the effusive joy that Jack’s come to associate with him. The words are like magnets, and Jack is pulled forward, into Eric’s space, into his arms, into a kiss. He only intends a peck, but it lingers, soft and sweet. When he pulls back, Eric’s glowing. He’s every bit as gorgeous and radiant as Jack remembers.

“Goodness,” Eric says shyly, backing up a few paces, “that’s one way to say hello.” He steps forward to lock the front door, takes Jack’s hand and leads him back to the kitchen. Jack follows, feeling lost in a haze of want and delight. He’s smiling. When was the last time he smiled this much?

“Now! I thought we’d make two different kinds of cookies,” Eric instructs. “For one set, I made the dough and chilled it early so we’d be ready to roll it out. The other kind is a meringue, a drop cookie, so we can make the batter ourselves. Let’s start with those…”

Jack follows Eric’s every instruction, measuring and pouring and mixing by turns as Eric gives him tips and hints. “ You want those egg whites to be nice and frothy now … that’s right, see how it peaks? That’s how you know it’s ready …. My Moomaw always left out the vanilla until later, but I find it’s better mixed in now….”

He’s wonderful to watch, and Jack is stuck between wanting to listen to him prattle forever and wanting to catch those endlessly moving lips with his own. There’s no time for that, though -- as soon as the trays of white spoonfuls, dotted with chocolate chips, are in the oven, Eric is moving across to the refrigerators and pulling out two huge bowls of chilled dough. He hands Jack a rolling pin and sets out a row of cookie cutters. “Cut whatever you like!” he says. “When these are done, we’ll be able to decorate them. And trust me -- my decorating set is formidable.” There’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he says it.

Jack finds himself cutting out cookie trees -- “you know those are usually for Christmas, but if you like them!” -- and animals, a cat with pricked-up ears and a bird -- and they lay the shapes flat on another set of pans, stopping when the timer goes off to take the meringues out of the oven. They’re crispy to the touch and, when Jack takes a bite, melt-in-your-mouth soft on the inside.  Almost painfully sweet, with the warm gush of the chocolate a smooth counterpart to the meringue’s slight chew. He makes a soft noise of delight.

Eric laughs. “Jack, you have a little -- um --” He points up at the corner of Jack’s mouth.

Jack can’t stop himself any longer. He takes Eric’s outstretched hand, eases it to his mouth and licks at his fingers. The soft taste of flour and sugar is dusted on his fingerpads. Jack grazes them with his teeth. Eric shudders.

“It’s… uh… it’s still there,” he says, but his voice is thick and soft, and when Jack leans down, Eric takes the hint and rises to his toes. Jack closes his eyes as Eric kiss-licks the errant bit of cookie away. He tilts his head, catches Eric’s lips more fully. Eric grabs him by the shirt and hauls him in. They kiss, desperate, as the meringues cool on their trays and the sugar cookies patiently await their turn in the oven.

“Eric,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Eric’s waist. “Bits.”

“I think--” Eric pants against his mouth. “I think I love it when you call me that.”

“Which one? Eric or Bits?”

Eric pushes another hot kiss against his mouth. “Yes.”

Jack tries to scoop Eric up in his arms then, bring him upstairs or just lay him down on the floor, but Eric twists away. “The cookies,” he says, flustered, breathing fast.

Together they transfer the meringues to a cooling rack and put the sugar cookies in the oven. The whole time, Jack’s just waiting for that last oven door to close so he can get Eric in his arms and under his mouth again. He reaches out, but Eric blushes and pushes back. “Come on, now, honey, the kitchen’s hot enough as it is.”

The word _honey_ sends a thrill through Jack. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be, I just…” Eric gives a little sigh. “You’re very attractive, Mr. Zimmermann, and I worry.”

“About what?”

“Just …. I just do.” His eyes are averted. A pang of sadness contracts Jack’s heart. Eric mentioned that he had a relationship that didn’t work out. Jack knows what it is to be once bitten, twice shy, but his feelings for Eric are so overwhelming, he’s forgotten his caution. He needs to be more careful. He can’t afford to let Eric go.

“Okay,” he says, backing off. “Okay.”

Eric holds one of his hands, threads their fingers together, then steps back a few paces. “My last relationship … it all went so fast,” he says, shuffling his feet against the kitchen tile. “We met, we hit it off, and then… all of a sudden I’m packing on up and moving here to Boston and thinking this is it, it’s happily-ever-after.” He gives a short laugh. “And it wasn’t. Happily, or ever after.”

“I’m … I’m sorry.” Jack isn’t sure what else to say.

“Oh, don’t be.” Eric cocks his head and tosses Jack a smile. “That’s life, you know? You open yourself up to someone and they can break your heart, but that’s part of the experience. I don’t regret dating him. Or, even, moving here. But I’m a little more cautious now, is all. I don’t want this to be something like that was. I don’t think it is, mind you.” he adds hurriedly. “You’re nothing like he was. But I want to be sure.”

Jack stares at him, wondering. What must it have been like, for Eric? So young and bright and madly in love, and then sent crashing back to Earth too soon? It seems a shame. No one ought to darken this brilliant a star.

“Anyway.” Eric approaches him again, looks up at him through dark eyes. “Don’t you get me wrong, Mr. Zimmermann. Every inch of me wants to drag you right on upstairs.” He reaches out, touches Jack’s face with a tender palm. “But I just have to take things slow. Just for a little while.”

Jack closes his eyes, smiles, and leans into the touch. “Whatever you need,” he says, and means it.

Things cool off after that. The sugar cookies come out of the oven, and they spend some time decorating them with Eric's impressive collection of frosting colors. Jack’s a little nervous about not handling the decorating bags correctly, but Eric guides him, and when Jack figures out the right combination of pressure and angle to make the icing flow freely, Eric lights up and applauds him. Jack paints peach after small round peach on his cookie trees, talking as he does about the finer points of keeping and maintaining an orchard. Eric draws goofy faces, bunnies and flowers on circular cookies.

Jack can’t help but chirp him about it. “Hard to believe that’s the same hand that decorated all those cakes out there,” he says, nodding toward the front of the shop.

Eric turns up his nose. “Different artistic styles are appropriate for different projects, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says haughtily, and Jack laughs. “Besides, if I create a masterpiece on every cookie, we’ll be here ‘til next Tuesday.”

Jack has to bite his lip to keep from admitting how much he’d like that.

The cookies go into a blast chiller for ten minutes to force the frosting to set. Jack marvels at the equipment. “We have large-scale coolers for the fruits, but we’re not big enough to need to flash-freeze anything,” he says. “I think Shitty might have something like this for the grapes, though.”

Eric suddenly has a horrible hacking cough. “I’m sorry? Did you just… what did you say your friend’s name was?”

“Oh.” Jack gives him a rueful grin. “I know how it sounds. But he’s gone by Shitty for years. I forget it means something else, sometimes.”

“Dear lord!” Eric laughs, a bright, crisp sound that fills the kitchen. He wipes his eyes. “I can’t even imagine!”

“You go by Bitty,” Jack points out.

“Well, that’s one thing! Your friend’s name is quite another!” Eric lets loose with another peal of laughter. Jack beams at him, feeling glowing and glad just to be in the presence of a laugh that bright. Every moment he thinks he can’t fall any farther or any harder, Eric does something to prove him wrong.

At the end of the evening, after Eric’s packed up a cardboard case with more cookies than Jack could comfortably eat in a month, they linger by the front door. Jack holds Eric’s hand loosely in his. “So… I’ll see you Saturday, at the market?”

“Mm-hm.” Eric’s gone from loud and brash to shy and demure, and somehow both extremes are equally him. “And you can stay in town for a while after? I’ll drive you back.”

“Sounds great.” Jack pauses. “Can I... kiss you goodnight?”

Eric looks at him, blank, big-eyed for a moment. “I… yes.” He takes the case of cookies out of Jack’s other hand, deposits them on a table near the door. “Yes, please.”

The _please_ does Jack in. He takes Eric’s face in his hands, leans down and fits their lips together. It’s quiet and sweet for about two seconds.

And then the bells on the front door are jingling as he pushes Eric into the doorframe, crushing their bodies together. Eric gives a moan, his mouth opening beneath Jack’s. He smells of flour and sugar and dark sweet things Jack’s dying to taste, and he licks into Eric’s mouth over and over, drawing out more of those soft, quavering moans with every taste. He lowers his hands to Eric’s waist, to his hips, groans at the feel of Eric hard against his thigh.

They break apart, panting. Jack steals soft baby kisses from Eric’s mouth in between gulps of air.

“Get out of here, Jack,” Eric murmurs, shoving him slightly with hot hands on his chest. “You’ll make me lose my resolve.”

“I-- yeah.” Jack lets Eric push him, takes the step backward, and sucks in a long breath. “Sorry. I… sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Eric says. His lips -- kiss-pink lips, shining just slightly in the dimness -- are turned up into a small smile. “Just be there Saturday.”

“Yeah.” Jack’s still trying to regulate his breathing. “Yeah.” Eric plants the cookie case in his arms and walks him out the door with a wink and a good-night. Once the door is closed, Jack turns around in the warm night, flushed and dizzied, but so happy he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

He sneaks a sugar cookie in the car, and the frosting melts on his tongue, sugary and light. His heart dances.

* * *

Saturday, after the farmer’s market, Jack stays in town as promised. They go see a movie -- a historical drama, rare for the season but quite good -- and afterward sit at a cafe, sipping coffee and talking about the characters and the period. Eric has a lot of opinions about the protagonist’s decision, at the end of the movie, to stay in London and see to his parliamentary duties instead of running away to France with his mistress. “All I’m saying is, I’ve been there,” he says with a haughty sip of latte. “And there are certain things you can count on in life and there are certain things you can’t. And it’s better to have the things you can count on then to throw them all away for something you can’t.”

“You were crying when they said goodbye,” Jack points out.

“Well, I’m not immune to the pull of a good romance!” Eric declares. “I’m just saying, sometimes that’s not the only concern. You, of all people, ought to know that, Mr. I Work My Fingers to the Bone Even on Sundays.”

“I…” Jack stops, considers. “I guess.” He’s halfway to saying he’d give it all up for the right person, but maybe that’s not true. It’s hard to express what the farm means to him. Certainly it’s not what he thought he’d be doing at this age, but it’s familiarity, comfort, the safety of knowing diligence and commitment means something. No, he’s not sure he’d give it up. Not when he’s known the feeling of having a so-called sure thing slip through his fingers before.

Things stay chaste that day, casual and comfortable. Eric pecks him goodbye when they reach the farm, and Jack keeps in check the urge to reach for him and pull him inside. When he gets to his room, though, his mind starts replaying the sight of Eric at the farmer’s market, sun-bleached hair and lightly freckled skin, and then the feel of Eric's thumb slowly stroking the back of his hand as they watched the movie.

Jack has to do something about it. Thank goodness for the privacy of a big, solitary farmhouse late on a Saturday night. He lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and brings himself off to the memory of sweet kisses. His panting breaths echo in the room afterward, and he falls asleep naked, in a blissful daze.

He wakes up the next morning to the sound of Justin and Adam crashing through the doors to the great room. He bolts to his feet and covers up before they cross to the bedroom. Nobody needs to see their boss naked.

* * *

Texting becomes a thing they do, back and forth, on and off during the day. Jack has never brought his phone into the fields with him, but then again, he’s never had a reason to. Now, it’s a source of comfort and contentment to him just having the phone there, knowing that it could buzz at any moment with a cheerful hello or a bizarre emoticon that Jack can’t interpret. Occasionally he pauses, leaning against the side of the barn, and rifles off a quick “hey.” Learns to treasure the moments when the three dots indicate a message is being typed on the other end. The first time he gets a “hi, _honey_ ” in return, he has to clap a hand over his mouth, he grins so hard.

What has gotten into him?

Even with the delight of the texts, it’s a hard week. Jack’s tractor breaks down, and one can’t just hire a tow truck to haul a broken tractor to the local service station. The tow company he usually works with is out of pocket, so he’s on the phone after hours Wednesday night with various other companies, trying to find someone with a flatbed who doesn’t charge an arm and five legs. When the phone rings at about 8:30 p.m., he picks it up with a tense “What?”

“Whoa, man. Are you having a moment? Should I call back?”

Jack relaxes into the chair, sighing. “Shitty.”

“Yeah, long time no talk.” Shitty’s voice -- a clear, cheerful tenor with an old-school Massachusetts drawl -- is a draught of fresh air. Jack breathes a little easier just hearing it. “You’ve been a ghost these past couple of weeks, brah. Something got you all wound up?”

_Sexual tension_ , thinks Jack, despite himself. “Yeah, I just have this thing I’m worried about. It’ll work itself out, I’m sure. What’s going on?”

“Brah. I have got the best new vintage, I’m so excited about it. It’s these German grapes? Similar to a Riesling, but it’s from this region called --  never mind. Anyway, listen. So I grew them a couple seasons back in that little field on the hill, you know, the one I almost never use. It’s got just the right sun exposure. We did a couple barrels of it with a mix of some other reds, and we just uncorked a bit of it to see how it was doing and, my brother, it is fucking divine. A religious experience. You know, if I did religious experiences, which I don’t. But if I did, this would be one, I swear to whatever-the-fuck-is-up-there. Long story short. We’re calling it Haus Blend, and I’ve got the most amazing new labels for it, you’ve gotta see them.”

Talking to Shitty is always a little bit like weathering an avalanche. Jack chuckles.

Shitty takes notice. “What? What’s the _haha_ for? You don’t _haha_. What’s going on? C’mon, I know you, buddy. You’re holding out on me.”

“Nothing,” Jack says, “nothing. I just… I met someone.”

“ _WHAT_?” Jack has to hold the phone away from his ear to keep his eardrums from getting blown out. “You freaking met someone? You motherfucking Romeo, shit, tell me all about them.”

Out it comes, Jack talking longer than he’s ever had any reason to talk before. About the farmer’s market, the pie, the peck of peaches, their overnight stay at the farm, cookies and movies and texting and all. Every detail seems incredibly relevant -- it takes real self-control not to go on about the way Eric feels in his arms, the way his kiss tastes. But Jack tries to stick to the outline of things. Shitty chimes in with an occasional “mm-hm,” but at the end, he’s silent. So silent that Jack has to prod him, “Say something.”

“Brah,” Shitty says.

“Hm?”

“Brah. BRAH. I could fucking KISS you. Hell, Jack, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you this fucking happy. I’m on the verge of tears over here.”

“Oh.” Jack doesn’t know how to take this. “Um, sorry?”

“Sorry? Shut up, don’t give me sorry. Instead, do this for me. Bring that boy over. I have GOT to meet him.”

* * *

9:34 p.m.  
Hey. Still awake?

_9:37 p.m.  
_ _Hi, sorry, just got this! You there?_

9:38 p.m.  
Yeah, hi. So.

_9:39 p.m.  
_ _???_

9:39 p.m.  
How do you feel about going to a wine tasting?


	6. Moonlight Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Jaradel.

Wine tastings at Shitty’s vineyard are not wine tastings in the traditional sense. They're more of an excuse for Shitty to throw a party for a handful of close friends and uncork his latest concoction. To call them informal affairs is something of an understatement; in fact, they bear more resemblance to a frat house party than anything else. But Shitty wouldn't have it any other way, and Jack is grateful. He doesn't have to worry about making small talk with strangers. He can sit back and let the group conversation wash over him, contributing only when he feels like it, free of judgment.

Jack tries to convey this to Eric via text, but gives up and calls him instead, in spite of the late hour.

"So you said this is a wine tasting, but not really?" Eric sounds tired, but interested.

"Yeah, well, I told you about Shitty. He doesn't really go in for fancy parties or anything like that. Usually when he has a new wine he wants to try out, he just invites his friends over, has a cookout, and we sit around a fire pit and sample the wine. If we like it, then he'll arrange a more formal tasting with buyers."

"Oh! That sounds like fun! So who all  will be there?"

"Well Shitty, of course, and his friend Lardo – I mean, Larissa – she's an artist and graphic designer, and does all of his labels, and Ransom and Holster – I mean, Justin and Adam, and... us."

"Lord, they sound like a hockey team," Eric laughs.

Jack chuckles. "Yeah, they know each other from college, they played there. That's how I met Justin and Adam, through Shitty. So... what do you think?"

There's a pause, and Jack wonders if the call disconnected. "I think... it sounds an awful lot like meeting your family," Eric says carefully.

"I guess in a way, they are," Jack muses. "With my parents being in Quebec, Shitty and his friends are the closest thing I have to family down here." Jack takes a breath; he feels like he's venturing into uncharted territory. "Does that... bother you?"

"No." Eric's voice is confident. "No, actually, I think it's great. I would love to meet your family, Jack. "

~~~

Jack and Eric's post-farmer's market dates are so routine now that Justin and Adam don't even question them. As the market winds down for the day, they start loading up the truck, and when they're finished, Jack tosses the truck keys to Justin without a word.

Justin catches them deftly. "Coming to Shitty's tonight, boss?"

"Yeah, we'll be there. Have to get cleaned up first."

Justin gives Jack a wicked grin, but Jack meets it with his best poker face. "All right, all right," Justin says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "None of my business, I know."

One corner of Jack's mouth quirks upward; it's the only concession he's willing to give in this conversation. "Damn straight."

Justin laughs as he walks toward the truck. Adam gives him a quizzical look , but Justin shakes his head. "Tell ya later, man. Get in."

Jack watches them leave, then walks over to Eric's stall. Eric is packing away the few baked goods that didn't sell; most of the rest of the stall is as packed up as it can be. He straightens up and greets Jack with a dazzling smile. "Hey there, handsome. You come here often?"

Jack laughs in spite of himself. "Bits, that is the worst pick-up line _ever_. "

Eric giggles. "Sorry, I couldn't resist. But you _are_ handsome."

Jack is still learning to take Eric's compliments in stride, but deflection is still a knee-jerk reaction; years of being the chubby kid in school left their mark. "Not as handsome as you," he replies, meaning every word.

Eric blushes, lowering his eyes. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

"Then I guess I'll just have to keep saying it."

Eric looks up at Jack through long brown lashes, smiling shyly, and it's taking every bit of Jack's self control not to pick him up and kiss him thoroughly. _Later,_ he tells himself. Right now they have a wine tasting to attend. "C'mon, Bits, let's get packed up," he says, nudging Eric's  foot with the toe of his sneaker.

"Yes, sir," Eric replies with a mock salute.

~~~

"Jack, you majestic motherfucker, haven't seen you in forever!" Shitty says, pulling Jack into a bear hug. Jack laughs, hugging Shitty back. He remembers the first time he met Shitty Knight; he had just taken over the farm and was barely moved in when this long-haired, mustachioed, hippie-looking guy showed up on his doorstep with a bottle of wine and an outsized personality. By the end of the evening, Shitty had cooked dinner in Jack's kitchen ("'s OK, brah, I got it!"), they had polished off the bottle of wine (a very tasty Merlot that had paired well with the filet medallions and garlic roasted potatoes Shitty had prepared), and Jack knew he'd just made a lifelong friend through virtually no effort of his own .

Really, Shitty was the best thing that had happened to him before he met Eric.

Shitty looked after Jack that first year, in a way that was far less intrusive than Jack might have  expected. He always seemed to know when Jack needed to talk to someone and when he needed to be left alone. He recommended his old college hockey teammates, Justin Oluransi and Adam Birkholtz, as farmhands , and they were the perfect fit for Jack's detail-oriented management style. Between Justin's meticulous spreadsheets and Adam's business acumen , they helped transform Jack's farm into a financially viable business. It was their idea to open the farm for picking fruit in-season, to set up a roadside produce stand, and to sign up for the farmer's market in Samwell. 

Shitty also introduced Jack to Larissa, who worked with Jack to develop all of the marketing for his farm. She recommended that Jack hire a young Samwell graduate, Will Poindexter, to code and maintain the farm's website, and created all of the graphics, which Will turned into a cohesive branding strategy for the site. Larissa was as quiet as Shitty was loud, as reserved as Shitty was gregarious, and she and Jack quietly connected as friends, though they barely spoke to each other. 

After all that Jack had been through, it felt good to have a cadre of people around him who actually cared about him and wanted to help him succeed.

It is this group of friends who are gathered at Shitty's tonight – all except Will, who works remotely from New York. Shitty releases Jack from the bear hug and turns his attention to Eric, who is looking a bit overwhelmed.

"You must be the guy who's put a smile on Jack's face!" Shitty says, grasping Eric's hand in both of his and shaking it.

Eric laughs nervously. "Yeah, I guess that's me," he says, glancing at Jack with uncertainty in his eyes. Jack smiles at Eric, taking his free hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

Shitty lets go of Eric's hand, and Jack suppresses a chuckle at Eric's small sigh of relief. "Well, anyone who can thaw the Iceman here has got to be good people." He winks at Jack – it's an old joke between them – and Jack grins. "C'mon, the rest of the gang is here! Just about to uncork the first bottle now. You a carnivore, Eric? I have some of Jack's finest beef on the grill for supper."

Eric laughs, a genuine, relaxed laugh, and Jack finds himself relaxing too. He didn't realize how much Shitty's acceptance of Eric mattered to him, but it makes sense – Shitty is family, and it's always been important to Jack to have his family's acceptance . They follow Shitty around to the back of the house, where there is a large fire pit set up and a kettle grill next to it. The smell of chargrilled beef hangs in the air, and Jack's stomach gives an approving rumble. Eric and Shitty are chatting, and Jack is content to let Eric carry the conversation, now that he's comfortable enough in Shitty's presence to do so. There is a semicircle of Adirondack chairs in front of the fire pit, and Larissa, Justin, and Adam are already settled in and carrying on a conversation about a television show that Jack doesn't watch. Jack sits down while Shitty gives Eric the nickel tour, and basks in the heat of the fire and the warmth of close friends.

Dinner is served a short while later. Jack sees that Eric has installed himself as Shitty's sous chef and is now serving up the beef kabobs hot off the grill. Once everyone has a plate, Shitty starts pouring wine for everyone. Jack settles back with his plate and his wine, and Eric sits down beside him, beaming.

"Enjoying yourself?" Jack asks quietly, leaning towards Eric.

"Goodness, yes! Shitty is quite a character, I must say. But I can see why you two are friends. He really cares about you."

"I know. He's a good friend. I'm lucky to have him," Jack says. His gaze lingers on Eric, the light of the fire dancing across his face, his eyelashes glittering. He wants to touch, to feel Eric's heated cheek under his fingertips, but Larissa pulls Eric's attention away with a question about the bakery. Shitty sits down on the other side of Jack, slapping him on the shoulder.

"Jack, you sure do know how to pick 'em. Better not let that one go or I'll kick your Canadian ass back to Montreal."

Jack laughs. "I take it you approve, then?"

"Whole-fucking-heartedly. I mean, have you looked in a mirror lately? You're _happy_. And Eric's happy. I just met the guy today, but brah, I can tell that he thinks you hung the moon. You better take care of him."

Jack smiles. "I'm pretty sure he's the one taking care of me."

"Maybe that's what you need, brother. Someone to take care of you. Someone who will help you when you get lost in that oversized cranium of yours." Shitty's expression softens. "That farmhouse is awful big for just one person. Maybe it's time, y'know, to think about the future."

"I have been. But I don't want to pressure him into anything. And he lives in Samwell, and I'm out here... there's a lot to work out." Jack sighs.

"Well, work it out. Because this is it, brah. This is the real deal."

Jack takes a sip of his wine and swirls it around in his mouth, thinking. Shitty's right; Jack is happy, truly happy, probably for the first time in years. He feels a flutter in his chest when he thinks of Eric, and how much Eric means to him, and he knows he doesn't want to lose that feeling; doesn't want to lose Eric.

"D'you like the wine?" Shitty asks, pulling him out of his reverie. 

Jack swallows. "Is this the new blend?"

Shitty grins. "Yeah, it's fucking magical! I dunno, it's like... friendship in a bottle. Lardo did a fucking fantastic design for the label. I'm planning to have a formal tasting in a couple of weeks, and then hopefully it'll be out in the local shops by September. Maybe a restaurant or two as well."

Jack takes another sip.  It's fruity but not too sweet; it sits warm on his tongue, and the aftertaste has a slight oaky flavor, warm like the fire in front of him. It feels like home.

"It's delicious, Shits. Your best blend yet, I'd say."

Shitty beams, his mustache quivering, and he throws an arm around Jack's shoulders. "Thanks, brah. I've got a bottle set aside just for you." 

~~~

Jack and Eric stay at Shitty's for a while, talking and drinking. Eric's gift of gab has the group entranced with his stories from the bakery and the farmers market. Justin and Adam pepper him with questions about his pies, and Eric deftly deflects their attempts to wheedle his recipes out of him. Larissa and Eric have a lengthy discussion about art and graphic design, and discover that they both live in Samwell, so they make plans to meet up for coffee during the week. Jack sits back and listens, content to observe. Eric fits in with his friends so well that it's like he's always been here, and Jack ruminates on that, watching the fire and listening to the chatter.

Shitty leans over to top off Jack's glass, but Jack puts his hand over it. "Better not. I still need to drive home."

"You've already had too much to drink, brah. I'll drive you and Eric home in your truck, and Lardo can follow us in my car. It's cool." Jack nods in agreement, removing his hand. Shitty pours him half a glass. "Enjoy this, Jack. This is what family feels like."

Jack sips his wine and nods. Shitty's right, of course. This is his family.

~~~

Jack is grateful, after all, for Shitty's offer to drive them home. He sits in the passenger seat, with Eric nestled under his arm in the center. Eric is awake, but quiet; he talked a lot and drank a fair bit of wine, and now he's warm against Jack's side, his hand stroking Jack's thigh. It feels good, almost too good. Jack knows how he wants this night to end, but he's not sure if Eric wants the same thing; he doesn't want to push Eric into anything he's not ready for, but as Eric's hand creeps further up his thigh, his desire to unwrap Eric, to love on every inch of him, ramps up. Shitty glances over from the driver's seat, green eyes twinkling with mischief and eyebrows waggling suggestively. Jack smirks, and turns his attention back to Eric, dropping soft kisses on the top of his head and stroking his arm.

Shitty turns up the gravel drive of Jack's farm and parks the truck in front of the house. Jack gently disengages from Eric's half-embrace and gets out, offering his hand to Eric to help him down. Eric rolls his eyes but accepts the assist, which makes Jack chuckle. Shitty tosses the keys to Jack.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, brah," he says as Larissa pulls up in her car.

"That's an incredibly short list, Shits," Jack deadpans. Eric giggles merrily as Shitty gets in Larissa's car and they drive off.

Jack opens the front door, and Eric, still giggling, trips on his way in, clutching at Jack to keep from falling. Jack feels a bit fuzzy around the edges - mostly from the wine, but not entirely - and he realizes he doesn't mind. Eric is soft and warm in his arms. They're standing in the great room, the moonlight shining through the French doors. Eric's face is turned up toward his, dark eyes glittering, a flush creeping across his cheeks. His lips are parted, and Jack can't hold back; he captures Eric's lips with his own. They kiss, slow but heated, tasting each other, drinking each other in. Jack feels Eric's hands slide up his chest, fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt. Surprised, he pulls back, stilling Eric's hands with his own.

"Are you sure?" Jack asks, searching Eric's face for any sign of hesitation or doubt.

"I'm sure." Eric's words are confident. "I want this. Oh Lord, Jack, I want this. I want _you_."

Eric's words sizzle through Jack's body. He kisses Eric again, pouring everything he's been holding back for the past few weeks into the kiss, wanting, claiming. Eric pushes up into the kiss, his hands working quickly to strip Jack's shirt off of him. Jack awkwardly shrugs it off while trying not to break the kiss, and he feels Eric smiling against his lips. Finally his shirt falls to the floor, and he starts on Eric's, his fingers fumbling over the buttons in his haste; he gives up after the first few and starts tugging the tails out of Eric's shorts, intent on pulling it off over Eric's head.

"Impatient, aren't we?" Eric laughs, stepping back to pull his shirt off. The moonlight caresses Eric's body, illuminating his slim but muscled torso. Eric's eyes are roving up and down Jack's body, and he steps closer, sliding his hands over Jack's bare chest. Jack moans; Eric's touch is like a spark, starting fires under his skin, and all he wants is to be closer, closer. He pulls Eric to him, chest to chest, and Eric's arms steal up around Jack's neck, his fingers in the hair at Jack's nape. Jack lifts him up, and Eric wraps his legs around Jack's waist, his mouth insistent on Jack's. Jack holds on to Eric's ass as he walks back to his bedroom.

Jack's shins hit the foot of the bed, and Eric lets go, falling onto the bed with a joyous laugh. The moonlight shines through the parted curtains over Jack's bed, and it loves Eric, bathing him in cool light and tantalizing shadow. Eric scoots back, leaning on the pillows, his legs parted in invitation. Jack crawls onto the bed, kneeling between Eric's thighs, caging Eric's shoulders between his arms, and kisses him deeply, thoroughly. Eric moans into  Jack's mouth, his hands stroking down Jack's sides and sliding around to his back, fingers slipping under the waistband of Jack's khaki shorts. Jack eases down on top of Eric, reveling in the feel of Eric's skin on his. He drops kisses along Eric's jaw and down his neck, nibbling and sucking, encouraged by Eric bucking up against him. Eric's hands slide further underneath Jack's shorts and briefs, the pads of his fingers digging into Jack's ass and pulling him closer.

"Need to touch you," Eric pants, arching up as Jack nibbles on his collarbone. "Shorts. Off."

Jack is loath to pull away, but the prospect of being completely naked with Eric wins out. He kisses Eric once more and sits up, kneeling on the bed while he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his shorts. He shucks them off quickly with his briefs, not wanting to miss a moment of Eric doing the same. But Eric is too quick for him; he's got his shorts and briefs off too, and is kicking them carelessly to the floor, and _oh_.

Spread out on Jack's bed, Eric is a vision, one that Jack has only ever dreamed of. Lean and strong, smooth skin with a dusting of blond hair, a darker blond treasure trail leading to a thatch of light brown hair, and his cock, hard and slim and slightly curved. Jack's brain goes offline at the sight of him.

"Hey, come back to me," Eric says softly, holding out his hand. Jack's brain reboots, and he reaches for Eric's hand, lacing their fingers together as he kneels between Eric's thighs again. He lowers himself carefully, not wanting to rest his full weight on Eric's smaller frame, and groans as their cocks touch.

"Oh god, Bits," Jack gasps, rolling his hips experimentally. Eric's eyes flutter closed as he meet s Jack's hips with his own, their cocks sliding against each other.

"More," Eric moans, baring his neck, and Jack takes the invitation. He kisses along the side of Eric's neck as he rolls his hips, the friction made slick with heat and sweat . Eric slides one leg around Jack's thigh, using the leverage to roll his hips upward into Jack's, his voice husky and soft as he says _yes, oh God, more, Jack_.

The sound of his name from Eric's mouth sends a spark through Jack, winding down his spine and around to his cock. He needs more, wants more, but he's not sure how far Eric wants to take this. Reluctantly he pulls back and leans on his forearm, his other hand still entwined with Eric's next to his head. "What - how do you want to do this?"

"Do you have any lube?" Eric asks, almost shyly.

Jack's mind races. Surely Eric doesn't want to go _that_ far tonight? "Yeah, in my nightstand. What are you--"

"Get it. I'll show you what I want."

Jack lets go of Eric's hand. He leans over the side of the bed and opens the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out the small clear bottle. He gives it to Eric and sits up, kneeling again. Eric uncaps the bottle and pours a little into his hand, then hands it to Jack. "Now you," he says.

Jack copies Eric, pouring a little into his hand, and caps the bottle, tossing it in the direction of the nightstand. It skitters across the top and bounces onto the floor, but Jack could not care less.

"Now come here," Eric says, his lubed hand reaching for Jack's cock. Jack understands now; he lowers himself down and reaches for Eric's cock, and oh, _oh_ , something as simple as a handjob has never felt so good. Jack leans on his forearm again, looking down at where they're stroking each other.

"Together," Eric says, letting go of his cock and lacing his fingers with Jack's, and yes, this is even better, with their joined hands stroking their cocks together, the dual sensations of their hands and their cocks even more intense than before. Jack closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling, not just the physical but the emotional, of being joined with Eric, of sharing this moment .

"Look at me," Eric whispers. Jack opens his eyes; Eric's eyes are wide and focused intently on Jack, his lips parted, his breath coming out in pants. Jack is falling, drowning in Eric's intense gaze, and soaring on a wave of pleasure and love, as his orgasm crests and washes over him.

"Oh honey, _yes_ ," Eric cries out, coming shortly after Jack, and they gentle each other through the aftershocks. Jack's whole body is buzzing, and it's not the wine anymore. He carefully rolls off of Eric, and they lie side by side, still holding hands. Jack turns his head to look at Eric, who's gazing back at him, his bangs damp and stuck to his forehead, his chest still heaving, his smile shining in the moonlight. Jack  feels that fluttering in his own chest again, a surge of emotion that leaves him breathless and on the verge of tears.

"Stay with me tonight, please," Jack whispers.

Eric squeezes his hand. "Honey, I'm not going anywhere."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will not be published until sometime in December. Please stay tuned!


	7. Chocolate Decadence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by tiptoe39.

**Chapter 7: Chocolate Decadence**

Bitty wakes up in Jack's arms and is promptly terrified.

Oh, dear. Oh, Lord. He did it. He actually did it.

He let go of all his carefully calibrated self-control and let Jack in. Found his way into Jack's bed. He'd sworn to himself to take it slow, and in a way it has been slow -- it's been a whole month, which surely counts as slow in this day and age -- but last night he'd been so enveloped in warm feelings, joy at being part of Jack's family, heady happiness from the wine and the smiles and laughter, incandescent from Jack's presence next to him -- and everything had seemed perfect. Too good to be true, even. And now as he lies here, his heart still singing, he wonders if it really is too good to be true. If, when he turns over and looks at Jack, he'll see some truth that the camaraderie and the wine masked last night.

He takes a long breath and turns in Jack's grasp.

Oh. Oh, the truth is there. And it’s beautiful.

Jack's perfect in sleep, his lips parted slightly, his lashes long as they flutter against his cheeks. As Bitty watches, he frowns against the intrusion of daylight, brow furrowing. Bitty reaches up to draw his thumb along the line of that crease. He's melting inside, warm and bursting with the desire to protect this man, to see to it he's safe and happy every minute of every day. Bitty knows with certainty, sharp and bright as a piece of sun, that he's falling in love. It's happening as quickly and as irrevocably as last time, and Bitty should be terrified. He should hold tight to that initial panic, close himself off, protect himself. But lying here, watching Jack slowly wake up, Bitty's flooded not with fear but with hope -- that this time, everything may be different.

Jack's eyes open, and he blinks a few times. The smile that dawns on his face then is soft and gorgeous. "Hi, Bits."

"Hi," Bitty breathes. He smiles back unabashedly.

They lie there looking at each other for a long time. Then, Jack leans in, and presses a chaste, sweet kiss to Bitty's lips. Bitty's heart soars. In that moment, so close to Jack, he inhales and remembers last night -- the feel of Jack's body against his, Jack's hand on him, the sound of Jack's voice as he came. Along with the love that's swelling in Bitty's chest, a wave of want rises up, so sudden and so intense that Bitty moans softly against Jack's mouth. He has the feeling he'll be thinking about last night all week long.

* * *

He's thinking about it as they drink coffee in Jack's kitchen. He's thinking about it as Jack drives him back into town. And oh, Lord, he thinks about it with that final goodbye kiss, long and lingering with a touch of passion. Jack breaks off and pants heavily, his forehead pressed to Bitty's. "See you soon?" he asks, his voice rich with roughness born of desire.

"I'll text you," Bitty promises. They kiss again, too long and too passionately, before Bitty manages to gather himself and retreat behind the front door of the bakery. He stands behind the glass and watches Jack drive off, his memory and imagination both running wild.

"You stayed over again?"

Bitty turns, images of Jack's touch and voice scattering. Tango is sitting behind the counter, leaning his cheek on one upturned palm and gazing at Bitty with unabashed curiosity.

Bitty chides him. “Now what does that mean? This is only the second time.”

“Oh, was it?” Tango tilts his head. “I don’t know, it feels like a lot of times.”

“Well.” Bitty flushes. “Sometimes I’m just coming back from a date.”

“Is there a difference?”

“ _Yes_ , Tango, there’s a difference, honey.” Bitty sweeps behind the counter and checks on the ovens. The morning’s baking has already been done, but as Bitty suspected, one sheet of cookies has been left on the cooling rack. This is the sort of thing that happens when Tango’s minding the shop. Bitty sighs and pokes one cookie gently with a gloved finger. Still soft enough to sell.

“Are you going to stay over there again?” Tango asks, heedless of the fact that there’s a group of people gathered in the seating area enjoying their treats. Can’t be helped, Bitty supposes. Tact and prudence were never two of Tango’s most enduring qualities. But Bitty does enjoy the fact that his employees are comfortable enough to chat with him as though he’s a friend.

Bitty finishes shoveling the cookies onto a display tray before answering. “Most likely.”

“Wow.” Tango watches him walk the cookies to the front before asking, “So are you guys gonna get married?”

Bitty very nearly loses the whole tray. He trips forward, cookies bouncing dangerously, and manages to right himself just in time to save the batch. “I beg your pardon?”

Tango shrugs. “Are you guys gonna get married? It seems like you’re really serious. Are you really serious?”

“I-- _goodness,_ Tango!” Bitty deposits the cookies in the display case and leans against the counter, trying to get his bearings. It isn’t a question he’s asked himself before -- whether he and Jack are _serious_ or not. They’ve only been dating a few months. But they _feel_ serious. At least, Bitty knows he’s seriously in trouble. He knew it when he woke up next to Jack and his heart hurt with happiness.

“If you get married,” Tango wonders, “what happens to the shop? Do you sell it?”

Bitty out-and-out laughs at this. “Sweetheart, where on earth would you get that idea?”

“Well, if you get married you usually live in the same house,” Tango says. “And you and Jack can’t live upstairs because it’s small, and Jack probably has stuff, so you probably have to go live in Jack’s house, unless it’s small too. Is it small? I know it’s far away, because whenever you stay over there you always come in late…”

“Tango. Tango. Hold up.” Bitty isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Sweetheart, we’re not getting married anytime soon. I wouldn’t worry so much about the store. You’re not going to lose your job, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Tango protests. “I’m just… wondering.”

And Bitty is wondering, too. Tango didn’t mean anything by it, but it does bring up questions -- questions about the future. What happens if he and Jack continue to grow closer? What happens if they decide it’s too hard to spend most nights alone? There are so many question marks in his future with Jack, so many big decisions to be made. And there’s so much he still doesn’t know about Jack. Is Bitty really willing to go through this again?

But when he closes his eyes and remembers the feeling of Jack’s body against his, and the gentle sweetness of being in his arms, the only answer he can possibly give is _yes, yes, yes._

* * *

On Wednesday, Bitty takes his lunch break at a downtown eatery called Jerry’s to meet Larissa. “Call me Lardo, dude,” she’d said over the phone, and Bitty had laughed and tried to comply. Now, as he walks in, Larissa -- Lardo -- sits with a cell phone and a sketchbook neatly arrayed before her instead of a plate and napkin. She’s sketching fiercely, and as Bitty slides into the booth she raises her head and her hand in welcome. Her pencil never stops moving.

Bitty can’t help taking a peek over at what she’s drawing. The page is already crowded with sketches, the variety of which is astounding. She’s got an array of male torsos, a cat, a house, and several cool-looking abstract symbols. The drawings don’t look like they could come from the same brain, let alone the same pencil. Her range is extraordinary. Bitty clears his throat. “Wow, these are so great.”

Lardo rolls her eyes. “Just doodling a bit while I wait,” she says, like she’s not putting down museum-quality artwork. She finishes up the pattern she’s drawing and shuts the notebook.

“No, but they’re really amazing,” Bitty tells her. “We talked so much at the wine tasting about art, but I didn’t actually see anything of yours ‘cept the wine label. I had no idea you could do--” he waves at the notebook  “--all of that.”

A touch of pink rises in Lardo’s cheeks, but she shrugs. “Like I said, just doodles.”

“Well, they’re a heck of a lot better than I could do! You know, I was telling Chowder about you -- Chowder, that’s one of my assistants at the bakery -- and he said I ought to hire you to design labels for our pie boxes. You’ll have to let me know your rates, because I have to say I’m so impressed.”

“Wait a second,” Lardo says with a crooked grin. “I’m the one who’s supposed to bug you about giving me business.”

“Guess I’m just saving time for both of us, then!” Bitty sniffs at the coffee pot in the center of the table. “Oh, Jerry’s coffee.” He can’t keep the lust out of his voice.

Lardo laughs softly. “Right? Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Bitty pours himself a cup, raising it to his lips and just inhaling the rich, bittersweet scent for a long moment before taking a sip. “Oh, it’s just like drinking a little bit of heaven. I’ve gotta tell you, a Jerry’s whoopie pie and a cup of coffee? Well, I won’t say it’s as good as anything we serve at the bakery, but it’s pretty darned delicious.”

“Whoopie pies, hm?” Lardo peers at her menu. “All right then, we’ll give it a try.”

Bitty eyes her as she orders. The other night, at the wine tasting, they’d had a really nice conversation. Bitty likes her. She gives an air of quiet wisdom, as though she knows far more than she’s letting on. Bitty wonders how much she might know and understand about Jack. It couldn’t hurt to ask a few questions, just in case. Just in case something comes up that’s a red flag.

Not that he doesn’t trust Jack. Just … he knows what happens when you get an incomplete picture of someone.

“So,” he says as they wait for their whoopie pies. “Jack said you’ve known each other a long time?”

“Yeah. A while now.” She sips her coffee.

Okay, that’s not as much information as he was hoping to glean from that question. “How’d you meet?”

“Shitty introduced us,” she says. “I did some work on Jack’s website and marketing and junk.”

Hm. Lardo was a lot more talkative the other night. Maybe Bitty should have met her for wine instead. “What was it like, working with Jack?” He flushes immediately. “Not that I’m trying to pry into your business or anything, but...”

But Lardo shrugs, seemingly unfazed by the question. “He’s good,” she says. “Really open to ideas, which is cool for an artist. Kinda wish he had more work for me, because I liked the process.”

“But now you’re friends.”

Lardo arches her eyebrows and takes another sip of coffee. “Yeah.”

Bitty pushes further. “And he’s a good friend?”

She sets her coffee cup down and crosses her arms over her chest. “What’s this about?”

Oh. Oops. Bitty has never been good at subtlety. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just get curious, is all. Jack doesn’t talk much about himself and I just thought…”

“You thought you could get the real scoop on him from me.” Lardo’s expression could be amusement or annoyance. Bitty abruptly realizes how underhanded this must seem to her. What if she goes running to Jack to let him know that his new boyfriend is an untrusting jerk? Bitty’s heart rate spikes, and he grabs the seat with both hands, stiffening.

“I’m… sorry,” he says, in lieu of anything better to say.

Lardo’s shoulders relax, and her expression softens. A smile plays at her lips. “Bitty, it’s okay,” she says. “I know how Jack is. I don’t blame you for wanting to know more.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him,” Bitty says. “I just…”

“You want dirt?” Lardo’s smile widens. “I’ll give you some dirt. Jack and I don’t talk much. We text every so often, and when we get together it’s usually about the same. He’s pretty low-key around me.

“But a few months ago he started texting me all the time. Asking me questions about gifts and dates, that kind of thing. I asked him what was going on. He texted me back, _I met someone._ And then more emoticons than I have ever seen. From Jack. _Emoticons_.”

“ _No_ ,” Bitty can’t help breathing.

“Dude, _yes,_ ” Lardo answers. “So of course I asked him about you. You should totally ask to see that chat log, by the way. You would blush so hard you might pass out.”

“Jack--? Really?” Bitty tries to imagine Jack waxing poetic in a text. It’s hard to conjure up what the words might be.

“I mean, dude, it’s still Jack, right? But I know the guy. And last night?” She shakes her head, grinning. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile so hard. Trust me, he is _crazy_ about you.”

“I--” Bitty raises his hands to his cheeks. They’re hot to the touch.

“Look,” Lardo says, “Jack’s one of the good ones. You don’t find a guy like that very often. So whatever you’re worried about, stop worrying. Hold onto him, Bits. He’s worth keeping around.”

And now Bitty blushes for a different reason. “How’d you know about _Bits_?”

Lardo blinks. “That’s what Jack calls you,” she says, deadpan.

Bitty buries his head in his hands and gives a little wail as the whoopie pies arrive.

The discussion turns to other matters as they down the pies and more coffee. Moist chocolate cake and sugary, light cream blend on Bitty’s tongue as he talks to Lardo about his bakery’s menu and the needs he might have for graphic design help. The maple pecan pie he dreamed up for Jack weeks ago has been getting popular, and he’s had more than one request for a whole pie to go. It couldn’t hurt to have a nice label made up to go on the pies. Maybe even advertise in the window.  

By the time they’ve drunk their last cups of coffee, bitter rich goodness to wash down the sweet of the whoopie pies, Bitty’s got a million ideas for future labeling projects and one very guilty conscience. He should never have doubted Jack, even for a minute. Instead of wondering what Jack doesn’t say, perhaps he should start thinking about what he himself hasn’t shared.

But there’s no way he can tell that story without some chocolate-flavored courage.

* * *

JACK

4:25 p.m.  
How would you like to help me test out a recipe?

_4:27 p.m._

_What kind of recipe?_

4:28 p.m.

A very chocolatey recipe.

4:28 p.m.

I got a [new cookbook](https://www.amazon.com/Theres-Always-Room-Chocolate-Brooklyns/dp/0847848639).

4:30 p.m.

You do like chocolate, don’t you?

_4:32 p.m._

_I like lots of sweet things._

4:33 p.m.

Somehow I knew you were going to say that.

_4:35 p.m._

_When were you thinking?_

4:36 p.m.

Well…

4:36 p.m.

If you wanted to stay over Friday…

4:36 p.m.

Then we could go to the farmer’s market together.

4:38 p.m.

Or maybe that’s a bad idea? Can Justin and Adam set up the booth without you?

4:40 p.m.

Jack? Sorry if I was being presumptuous

_4:41 p.m._

_No, you’re fine. I was wrestling a stubborn plant._

_4:42 p.m._

_Friday night sounds great. Just tell me what time._

4:43 p.m.

Whenever you can get away. I have to do some preparation first so I’ll probably start midafternoon.

4:44 p.m.

_I’ll be there. :)_

4:45 p.m.

:O Did you just smiley face me?

4:46 p.m.

Wow, Lardo wasn’t kidding about the emoticons.

4:47 p.m.

_Haha, what did Lardo tell you?_

4:47 p.m.

Nothing! I’ll tell you Friday.

4:48 p.m.

:-*

4:48 p.m.

_What is that?_

4:49 p.m.

I’ll show you when you get here. :-* ^_O

* * *

The recipe, a decadent chocolate layer cake, has a thick pudding filling and a rich icing. Bitty makes them both ahead of time, then puts them in the refrigerator to cool. He figures that when Jack gets here, they’ll make the cake layers themselves, then have dinner and talk while the cake bakes and subsequently cools. Then they’ll have fun assembling and dressing the cake. The timing works out beautifully. By the time Jack arrives, the filling and icing are done, the ingredients are out and ready for the cakes themselves, and the whole kitchen smells deliciously of chocolate.

Jack is carrying a bag that smells to high heaven of fast food. Bitty takes one look at the label and laughs. “Jack in the Box? Jack, _really_?”

“I figured dessert would be the star of the show,” Jack says. “So I thought we could keep dinner simple.”

“So you went with fast food?”

“I like chicken tenders,” Jack says sheepishly, as though he’s admitting to a great vice. Bitty has to laugh. He presses forward, snatches the bag out of Jack’s hand, and leans up to kiss him soundly. Oh, dear, this man is _adorable_.

Bitty fumbles for his keys. “I’m just gonna run this up to the apartment. We’ll eat there while the cakes are in the oven, and I don’t want this kitchen smelling of French fries.”

A few minutes later, fast food safely deposited upstairs, they embark upon their baking adventure. Together they measure liquid and dry ingredients into separate bowls, then beat together a mixture of butter and brown sugar and eggs. The cocoa comes next, the rich aroma filling the room as they beat it into the mixture. Bitty tasks Jack with pouring in the dry ingredients a little at a time, commenting on the texture of the batter as it thickens, laughing at Jack’s surprise when Bitty brings a pitcher of cold coffee to add to the mix. Finally, the batter is ready for pouring and baking. It’s lush and dark and smells delightfully of chocolate and coffee.

“I want to eat it now,” Jack says. His eyes are hooded as he looks at the bowl, and he licks briefly at his lips.

“Honey, _no_ ,” Bitty chides him. “It’s got raw eggs in it.”

“I’ve had raw eggs before,” Jack says with a shrug. “This looks a lot better than a protein shake.”

A million things run through Bitty’s mind at once. First, the concept of Jack drinking protein shakes brings to mind Jack being athletic, using those farmer’s muscles of his, maybe shirtless, working out or getting tan in the fields. Tantalizing images all, and with Jack so close, Bitty’s starting to feel molten and warm inside. Another, less mature part of him takes the words “protein shake” in a decidedly less PG direction, and that brings up another flavor of delicious images. So many things he and Jack haven’t done yet. So many things they could possibly do. And the night stretching out in front of them long and dark, full of promise.

Then Jack’s hands are on his waist, Jack’s body against him from behind, and Bitty nearly goes up in flame.

“Maybe,” Jack says, “it’s not the batter I want.”

“ _Jack_.” Bitty tries to sound reproachful, but he’s swooning.

“I’ve been thinking of you this week,” Jack murmurs against his ear. “The way you felt next to me.”

“Jack, _goodness_.”

“The _noises_ you made.” Jack’s voice is low and rough, want quavering in each syllable.

Bitty is a wildfire inside, hot and volatile. He relaxes, allowing his body to melt into Jack’s just enough that Jack gives a soft moan at the feel of it. Bitty thrills. They _could_ just leave the batter here. Bitty could just jump up on the counter, spread his knees, and invite Jack between them. They could kiss and touch their hearts out, right now in this empty bakery, heedless of time and unfinished baking projects.

But Bitty made himself a promise tonight, and he intends to keep it. And leaving batter unbaked offends his sensibilities. “You know,” he says teasingly, “chocolate is an aphrodisiac.”

“You don’t say.” The desire in Jack’s voice is as thick and deep as the bowl of batter.

Bitty turns slowly in his arms. “Don’t you want to know what it’ll be like _after_ we’ve had ourselves some cake?”

Jack groans. “You have a point.” But he leans in for one brief, hot kiss before stepping back, and Bitty closes his eyes to enjoy it. He may even let it go on a beat too long.

“Come on now, honey,” he says, smiling shyly up at Jack. “We’ve got to pour all this into the pans.”

* * *

They eat dinner as the cakes bake, and Bitty picks at his food, although the delectable greasy smell of the tenders and fries is appealing. He’s halfway nervous about what he has yet to tell Jack tonight, and halfway looking forward to what comes after. There’s no doubt he wants Jack in his bed tonight, and Bitty doesn’t want to weigh himself down with a heavy meal. Especially not with layer cake still to come.

As they eat, they chat. Jack’s concerned with things down on the farm. “Holster’s being cagey,” he says, a frown darkening his features. “He gave me this look when I told him and Ransom to take care of things for the market tomorrow. I don’t know what’s going on with him. Ransom was all smiles.”

“Was he upset about the extra work?” Bitty wonders idly.

“You know, I don’t think so,” Jack says. “Last summer I caught a summer cold and had to miss two markets in a row. He didn’t complain then. Maybe he thinks you’re not as good an excuse.”

Jack laughs as he says it, but Bitty frowns. “Could be jealousy. He doesn’t like that I’m taking up so much of your time.”

“Well, he’d better deal with it.” Jack leans forward and brushes his fingers over Bitty’s knuckles, smiling. “I like you taking up my time.”

A warm flush creeps over Bitty’s face. “I like it too, Jack,” he says, his voice soft and shy. “But, you know, sometimes it’s difficult when your friends start to have other priorities. He needs to know things aren’t going to change that much.”

Abruptly, Bitty realizes he’s thinking about Tango, about that conversation they’d had earlier in the week. Tango had seemed scared to death of change, looking way ahead to a time and place where his comfortable, minor role at the bakery might be altered. Tango’s a good employee, but he needs a little guidance from time to time. It must be nerve wracking to see Bitty no longer giving him his full attention.

Jack is pensive. “Maybe,” he says after a beat. “I wish… I wish it could just be us, sometimes. Without the rest of the world.”

Bitty stills. He knows what Jack’s saying, but to some extent he’s _had_ that, and it was not as great as advertised. It also reminds him of his promise to himself. “I … wish that too, sometimes,” he says quietly. “Come on, let’s get those cakes out of the oven.”

* * *

As they creep back downstairs to the kitchen, the heavenly, rich smell of chocolate assaults them. Jack gives a little groan behind him as they descend the staircase. Bitty’s heart floats. He loves this moment in baking, the realization that all that mixing and measuring has really created something delectable. There’s some magic that happens in the oven, some moment when batter becomes cake and all the aromas are released, and it thrills him to the core every time. _I mixed that potion_ , he thinks. _Me. I gave birth to something wonderful._

The cake layers, as Bitty removes them from the oven, are the perfect thickness and texture, and if the smell of them still in the ovens was heavenly, the smell as Bitty pulls them out and carefully transfers them to the cooling rack is downright intoxicating.  At once Bitty’s aware of Jack’s proximity, of how easy it would be to turn and touch him. And the fact that they created these cakes _together_ , abstract as it is, makes him feel twice as drunk. He murmurs a soft “oh, _Jack_ ” under his breath as he places the last layer in the refrigerator and steps back.

And finds himself in Jack’s embrace.

Jack’s hands cinch at his waist, slipping down to his hips and holding securely. He presses his nose into Bitty’s hairline, mouthing softly at the nape of his neck. “I see what you mean,” he murmurs. “About chocolate being an aphrodisiac.”

Jack’s name slips from Bitty’s mouth, half a moan. His skin prickles with desire. He lets the potholders drop to the floor and covers Jack’s hands with his, breathing in deeply. God, he wants. He wants with the pent-up desire of a week apart. He wants so deeply, and so completely, that it should scare him, shake him. The fact that it doesn’t is even scarier.

He turns slowly in Jack’s arms, trying not to drag their bodies together as he does, but Jack’s holding him too close to avoid it. When he’s turned, Jack darts in fast and bold, captures his mouth in a long, searching kiss that leaves Bitty panting, his lips buzzing with sensation. “Honey,” Bitty murmurs, “oh, honey. Wait. Just wait a minute.”

Jack’s grip falters. “Too much?” he asks, worry in his voice.

Bitty looks up at him -- the now-familiar planes of his face, the jut of his chin, his eyes, all still beautiful. “Not enough,” he breathes. “But not yet. I want to tell you something first.”

There’s no mistaking the disappointment in Jack’s expression, but he steps back, gripping one of the counters tight. “Okay,” he says, carefully controlling his breathing. “Okay.”

“It’s just,” Bitty says, “I want you to know where I’m coming from. I want you to understand why I’m-- what this means to me.”

“Okay.”

Bitty settles himself against another counter and licks his lips, carefully searching for the first words.

“His name was Andy,” he says.

* * *

His name was Andy, and he came from Boston College. He was down in Georgia to try to recruit Bitty to the hockey team there. And Bitty knew it was a great offer, but he still liked baking better than he liked hockey, and he still dreamed of going to culinary school. But after a half-week of persuasion and skating together and walking the long back roads that connected farmland to endless farmland, Bitty found that he liked Andy more than all of it.

Andy kissed him at sunset, behind a big red barn that threw a dark shadow over the path they were walking. Nobody could see them. Bitty felt baptized by the kiss, blessed. Into his life had fallen this amazing boy, and everything Bitty had always thought was wrong with him now felt so incredibly right. When Andy left, Bitty cried. They texted and Skyped their way through the remaining months. And Bitty discovered that the culinary academy Newbury College was right down the road from BC, so the next fall, that’s where he went.

He expected his reunion with Andy to be passionate, and it was -- but it was also private. Andy held him close that first night and told him, “Look, things are different up here. I’m a guy playing hockey. I can’t… If people knew, around here…”

“But this is _Massachusetts,_ ” Bitty had said. “Even same-sex marriage has been legal here for years. I looked it up.”

Andy sighed. “I’m sorry, Eric,” he’d said, kissing at Bitty’s fingers. “It’s just the way things have to be.”

And that was the way things _were_ , for a year. At BC parties and hockey games, Bitty was Andy’s pal from Georgia, no more. Bitty shouted himself hoarse cheering for Andy from the stands and hoped nobody could tell why. But alone in Bitty’s tiny Brookline apartment, they were lovers. There was no argument they couldn’t remedy with kisses, no tension they couldn’t resolve in bed. Bitty was dazzled by him, thrown from his senses with the power of this brand-new, amazing thing that had pulled him under sure as a riptide. He loved Andy fiercely. Fiercely enough that he endured the pressure of not being himself, even to his gay college friends. It was all worth it for a kiss, a touch from Andy in the secret night.

When Andy graduated, Bitty was sure things were bound to change. He wasn’t going to play hockey anymore. He graduated with a degree in business and he’d get a respectable job and they’d be able to come out to all of their friends.

So news of the move came as a shock.

They were on the phone one day. Andy was back at his parents’ place in Wellesley. And, apparently, he was packing.

“Didn’t I say?” he told Bitty absently. “Yeah, I’m on the job hunt, and all the good prospects are in New York. So we found a good apartment and that’s where I’m going.”

It took Bitty a few breathless repetitions of “New _York_?” before he finally got it. When he did, he was livid. “You just up and made this decision? Without even talking to me about it?”

“There really wasn’t anything to talk about,” Andy said. “It was always gonna be this way. I gotta go where the jobs are.”

“But… but what about _us_?”

“Eric,” Andy said, with a note of sympathy in his voice. “You had to know I was never gonna be the right one for you. Look, we had fun. And if you ever want to hook up while I’m in town, it’s cool. But I think you’re looking for something I can’t give you.”

There were so many things Bitty wanted to say then. How it was _Andy_ he was looking for, Andy he wanted, despite all the rest of it. How he’d drop everything and go to New York _with_ him, if only Andy would have him. How he was so sure they’d had so much more than fun.

But Andy was right. If he was the kind of guy who could say such things, if he could sleep with a boy for a year and then move away without so much as a discussion, he clearly _wasn’t_ the right one for Bitty. So Bitty let him go.

He started his next year at Newbury, but he couldn’t bear to live in that basement apartment, the place where he’d built a fantasy life with a boy who’d never really been there to begin with. And by mid year, he’d packed up his things and transferred to a liberal arts school in a tiny town called Samwell. It turned out to be the best move he’d ever made. At Samwell, he was able to be everything he’d had to hide. He was out, happy, himself -- but still freshly bitten, still afraid of putting his heart on the line again. He barely dated during college, and once he opened the bakery, his work had become his true love. If there was a part of him that was lonely, he buried it under sheets of fresh muffins and brownies and croissants, day after day, year after year..

And then he took his wares to the farmer’s market, and found himself staring helplessly at a dark-haired man who wore flannel in the heat of summer.

* * *

At the end of his tale, Bitty finds himself lacking for the words to sum it up. He meets Jack’s gaze and is momentarily thrown by the concern and empathy in those wide blue eyes. “So…” he starts. “So, so, I just want you to know that even though this is really… really kind of scary for me, I’m happy. I’m glad you’re in my life, Jack Zimmermann.” He offers Jack a genuine smile. “Thank you for being everything he wasn’t. Thank you for introducing me to your friends. For kissing me in front of--” He shakes his head. “Just…. thank you for being _you_.”

Jack steps forward, unsmiling. “I would never,” he starts. “Not in a million years, I’d never do that to you, Bits.”

“I know, honey, I know.”

“I’d never ask you to hide. Even if I had -- even if I wasn’t just some farmer, I’d never want you to hide who you are. And I’d never make a move like that without talking to you. You’re too important to me.” A few more steps forward, and he and Bitty are face to face. Jack reaches out and pulls one of Bitty’s hands into his.

Bitty can feel the tears coming. He swallows hard to force them away. “Jack, I _know._ I just wanted you to know where I came from. Why I’ve been so hard to pin down.” He laughs a little. “I must’ve been more than a little frustrating.”

“You are worth it,” Jack murmurs, sliding his other hand around Bitty’s waist to the small of his back. He looks down at Bitty with soft eyes, and if Bitty didn’t know any better, he’d think that’s _love_ shining in their depths. “You’re more than worth it.  Bits. Eric. I’d wait… I’d wait forever.”

Bitty’s heart melts like so much chocolate. He’s all aching and sweet inside. In the absence of any words worth saying, he rises to his toes and presses his lips to Jack’s. They kiss, sweet and lingering, in the quiet kitchen, and it feels like a first kiss. New and golden and unforgettable.

“Then,” Bitty says, “let’s see if you can wait until we’ve put this darned cake together, okay?”

Jack steps back with a groan. “I’ll manage,” he says with a wry grin. “Somehow.”

* * *

“So we can’t actually eat the cake tonight?”

There’s disappointment in Jack’s voice, but Bitty shakes his head and keeps on sawing. He cuts the rounded dome off the layer neatly, leaving both sides flat. “After we fill the layers, the whole thing has to set,” he explains, setting the thin slice aside. “And then we’ll frost it in the morning.”

“Hrm.” Jack may actually be pouting, in his deadpan Jack way.

Bitty takes pity on him. “If you like, honey, you can take some of that piece and put some of the filling on it, and taste that,” he says. “I’d just throw it away otherwise.”

Jack lights up again, and as Bitty brushes simple syrup over the top of the layer, Jack breaks off a piece of the discarded layer top in his hand, then dips it in the cool pudding. He takes a taste, and if his groan is any indication, the cake will be worth spending all this time on. “Bits, you’ve got to try this.”

“I will, I will,” Bitty says patiently. “Now don’t eat up all my filling, Jack Zimmermann.”

“I’m not,” Jack protests, but he takes another little piece and pops it in his mouth. The pleased noise he makes is enough to get Bitty’s skin prickling.

No, no, cake first. Bitty shakes himself. “Now spread some of that pudding filling over the top of this layer,” he instructs, and Jack obeys dutifully, picking up the spreading knife and carefully covering the cake with a thick layer of filling. It smells heavenly. Bitty inhales, and it’s like taking in charged air. He shifts a little closer to Jack, suddenly needing to be nearer to him, to feel more of his body heat. Jack takes in a wavering breath next to him. It takes real effort for Bitty to remember to place the second layer atop the filling and cut the dome off the top.

As he spreads the simple syrup over the shaved surface of the layer, Jack breaks off another sliver of the discarded domes. Bitty clucks his tongue. “Honey, are you just going to eat that whole thing?”.

“This isn’t for me,” Jack says. Before Bitty has a chance to ask what in the heck that means, Jack has dipped the piece in the pudding and is steering it toward Bitty’s mouth. Blindsided, Bitty parts his lips to allow the cake in. He bites back a groan as it melts on his tongue -- chocolate, rich and luscious cake, cool sweet filling. Jack chuckles. “See?”

“Mm,” Bitty murmurs. “Oh, honey. That is not bad--” He breaks off. Jack still has a bit of filling on his fingers. Seized with a sudden impulse, Bitty closes his hand around Jack’s wrist and brings his hand up. He darts forward and sucks the wayward chocolate off Jack’s fingertips.

Jack groans, and this time it has nothing to do with the cake. “ _Bits_ ,” he mutters. The sound comes from low in his throat, and it rumbles through Bitty’s body like distant thunder.

“One--” Bitty begins, stuttering. He has to start again. “One more layer.”

“Right.” Jack’s breath catches.

Bitty finishes the coating of simple syrup, then prompts Jack to cover the layer with filling. As he works, Bitty glances at the thin circles of cake that Jack has been poaching from. Jack was right. The cake is wonderful, sinfully rich but just balanced enough that the pudding is a shock of sweetness against the tongue. Bitty reaches out and breaks off a small piece of his own. He reaches around Jack to dip it in the filling. Some of the chocolate catches on his index finger.

He lifts the slice of cake to Jack’s mouth. Jack’s gaze flies to him; his eyes are dark, pupils huge in the instant before his eyes slide closed. He opens his mouth and takes in the cake, catching Bitty’s fingertip between his lips and sucking. The tip of his tongue flutters against Bitty’s skin.

“ _Oh_ ,” Bitty breathes.

Jack releases his finger, swallows around the bit of cake, then turns. “Hurry up with that last layer, Bits,” he urges, and there’s a wild note in his voice that makes Bitty tremble.

The last layer doesn’t need shaving, just securing atop the filling, and Bitty finishes with trembling hands. He wraps up the cake in plastic wrap and shuttles it to the refrigerator, feeling Jack’s eyes hungry on him the whole time. When the refrigerator door closes, it takes a scant half-second before Bitty’s back is up against it. Jack presses their foreheads together for a single, blazing moment before he crushes Bitty’s mouth in a kiss.

Moaning openly, hearing the sound ping off the tiles of the floor and the granite of the counters, Bitty locks his hands behind Jack’s neck and kisses back. Jack’s kisses taste of chocolate, and they’re hot, so hot with want and waiting. His tongue swipes against Bitty’s, his body warm and weighty. Bitty’s giddy with chocolate and desire. He cards one hand up into Jack’s hair.

“Bits,” Jack half-growls, his mouth barely a breath away in the space between kisses. “Come here.”

“Come.. where?” But Jack’s backing up, returning to the counter where the bowl of filling is still sitting. As Bitty follows, wide-eyed, Jack dips his fingers into the bowl. His hand comes away sticky with chocolate.

Bitty’s mouth waters. He reaches out, hungry for the salt of Jack’s skin on his tongue, the mix of cool and hot. But Jack jerks his hand to the side, denying the press of Bitty’s mouth. Instead, he smears the chocolate over Bitty’s cheek, his jaw and neck. Bitty hisses at the coolness on his skin, then laughs. “Jack, what are you--”

Jack leans in and licks the chocolate off Bitty’s cheek.

Bitty loses his breath. He grips Jack by the hips, eyes closing, senses reeling. Jack follows by sucking up the last of the chocolate on Bitty’s cheek, then moving down to his jawline to lap up the chocolate there. Stars fly across the landscape behind Bitty’s eyelids. Oh, Lord, the heat of Jack’s mouth, the way Bitty’s nerves sing as Jack works on him with such intense pressure and precision! Bitty hears himself whimpering, gasping. He can’t stop. Jack’s robbing him of breath, and it’s all he can do to get it back.

“Upstairs,” he moans when he can get enough air.

Jack makes a disappointed noise from somewhere low on Bitty’s neck.

“We can bring the chocolate with us,” Bitty offers, and he feels Jack’s lips on his skin curve into a smile.

* * *

Bitty’s on his bed, naked, with Jack on his hands and knees above him. Smears of chocolate dot his body, collarbone and nipple and stomach and hipbone. Jack’s painted him carefully, taking his time to choose each spot and apply the filling. Bitty gasped at each touch of cool cream and warm fingers against his body. He’s embarrassingly hard, cock twitching as he stares up at Jack with eyes wide as the moon.

Jack lowers his mouth to Bitty’s skin.

Sunbursts of sensation set Bitty shaking and begging as Jack works his way down Bitty’s body. Shirtless, Jack’s a Greek god, hewn from marble. When Bitty can stand to watch -- when he’s not throwing his head back and closing his eyes tight -- he fixates on the hunch of Jack’s shoulders, the careful arch of his arms. Jack’s so _solid_ and so beautiful, and he’s _here_ , and Bitty can only think of how lucky and how turned on he is -- when he can think at all.

Jack works down his stomach, then sucks his hipbone clean. He pauses, lifts his head. His fingers feather at the base of Bitty’s cock. “Bits,” he murmurs. “I want to taste you.”

It seems a dumb question. “What have you been _doing_?”

“You know what I mean,” Jack says, and Bitty doesn’t, he honestly doesn’t -- until Jack runs his hand up Bitty’s shaft, fingers teasing at the tip.

The words come in a heated rush. “Oh. _Oh._ Yes, Jack, oh God, yes, _please._ ”

Jack doesn’t take any more time. He fits his mouth around the head of Bitty’s cock, taking it in in one swift movement. Bitty grabs the sheets and tries desperately not to arch into the heat. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord, Jack is _perfect._ Jack’s mouth is hot and wet and amazing. The tightness as he closes his mouth over more of Bitty’s shaft, the sweet wash of tongue, the _pressure_ as he sucks in -- Bitty’s going to explode, his nerves can’t take it all. Wild waves of sensation plunge one after another through his body. His thighs tense. He squeezes the sheets into wrinkled, crumpled knots of fabric. “Jack,” he manages between gasping breaths. “Jack, _Jack._ ”

His answer is a hum -- Jack’s lips buzzing around him -- that sends his whole body vibrating. Bitty shouts. He arches then -- he can’t _not_ \-- and Jack accepts the push upward with a muffled groan. Experimentally, Bitty pushes again, fucking into Jack’s mouth. Jack just opens up and allows him. It’s too good, Jack’s too giving, and Bitty aches to give too. He wants to open himself, let Jack in, finally and without reservation. And selfishly, he craves Jack’s body over and around him, craves the feel of his chest and the heat of his arms.

“Honey.” His syllables break into fragments. “Hon-- honey, wai-- wait. Do-- do you want to -- is this?”

Jack hums again, then eases off him, inch by inch, lingering with sweet sucks and licks at the head of his cock before letting go. Bitty’s panting as Jack makes his way back up to face him. Bitty almost loses his breath entirely at the sight of his face. His lips glisten wetly and his eyes are wide and dark with desire.

“What do you want?” Jack murmurs.

_Everything. I want everything. I want to feel you. I want you to be a part of me. I want to hold onto you and never, ever let go._

The words fly through Bitty’s mind, but he can’t summon them to his lips. Flushed, wavering under Jack’s gaze, he averts his eyes and lets a little smile come to his lips. “I have some condoms in the drawer,” he starts.

Jack takes in a sucking breath. “Really?”

Bitty nods. “If you like it. I know some boys don’t…”

“I like it,” Jack fills in hurriedly, a quaver in his voice. “God, Bits, I don’t-- who should--”

“You.” Bitty lifts a hand to caress Jack’s cheek. Jack nuzzles into it. “I want you to be-- I want you to fuck me,” he spits out, all in a rush, like he’s a blushing virgin who’s never said the words before. And it might as well be his first time. It’s been so long, and everything with Jack is so different.

Jack kisses him soundly. “Bits,” he groans against Bitty’s lips.

“Do you want to?” Bitty asks him.

Jack’s quick to answer. “Yes. More than anything.”

The low rough scrape of Jack’s voice nearly does Bitty in. “That drawer,” he says, pointing. “Oh, Jack, _hurry._ ”

And Jack hurries -- quick, fumbling movements as he gets up off the bed, crosses half-naked to the dresser, then sheds his pants in a nervous rush. When he turns back, reveals himself hard and naked, Bitty gives a helpless little whimper that he should be ashamed of. But God, yes, he wants that -- wants Jack -- hard and needy and deep inside him. He wants so much that he reaches out with one hand, as though he can draw Jack closer through sheer willpower.

Maybe he can. Jack moves toward him as though magnetized, gliding over the floor in bare feet, and before Bitty can say anything, he’s there. He threads his fingers through Bitty’s outstretched ones for a bare moment, squeezing, and then turns his attention to what he’s brought from the drawer. Condom on, then lube, in his palm and on his fingers. Bitty takes in a long breath and murmurs another _please_ as he waits, straining and wanting, body buzzing with excitement.

The first touch and he’s trembling; the first dip inside and he’s gasping. His head tips back on the pillow, and he lets out a high, wanton noise. Oh, God, he’d forgotten how _good_ this is, how the pressure and the heat and the fullness turn his body into a furnace. Jack’s fingers are too much and not enough in the best possible way, making Bitty strain and groan as they open him up with the kind of gentle patience Bitty himself couldn’t possibly muster. He wants more _now_ , even though he knows he should wait and let his body adjust, and he has to concentrate on his breath to keep the excitement from shorting out his brain.

It feels like forever before Jack pulls back and kisses his knee. “Bits,” he murmurs, low and dangerous.

“ _Yes_ , honey.” Bitty’s reply comes all in a breath. “Yes, _now._ ”

Jack’s body settles over his, weighty and solid. Jack leans low to kiss his mouth. It’s an unbearably soft kiss. Bitty keens into it, trying to suck Jack’s lip between his teeth, wanting more than he’s getting. Oh, but then Jack’s _there_ , pressing in, hands careful as they cradle his hips. Bitty breathes long and slow, lets it happen.

Being connected with Jack like this is everything he’d hoped it would be. Jack’s heat inside him, the wonderful burning stretch of it, steals Bitty’s breath and fills his body with overwhelming sensation. Oh, he’s _full_ , he’s full to bursting -- not just physically but also with emotion, as he looks up at Jack and sees the look of agonized restraint on his face. “It’s okay, honey,” Bitty tells him, lifting a hand to caress Jack’s cheek. “It feels so good.”

“Eric.” The word breaks across Jack’s lips.

He moves then, starts rocking in a slow, careful rhythm, and Bitty gasps and throws his arms around Jack’s shoulders as the sensation wracks him. “Oh, honey, honey, _yes_ ,” he breathes. He hooks his ankles around the small of Jack’s back, pulling him in, and rocks with him. Jack buries his head in Bitty’s neck and shoulder, muffling his groans -- low, wild things -- in Bitty’s skin.

Bitty arches up, reveling in the feel of his cock dragging against Jack’s stomach. It’s all he needs, really -- just the little bit of friction. The contact and the closeness do the rest. He’s half out of his head already, stroking Jack’s hair with one hand, the other spread-fingered on Jack’s back, clawing there when he can barely stand the pleasure. He presses kisses into Jack’s neck, against his ear, anything he can reach.

It’s been forever since he’s felt this -- the haze of heat, the feeling like a fire billowing up inside him, like a flower ready to bloom. He remembers the sensation, the physical, well enough. But the feeling of belonging -- of being cherished, needed --  that he experiences as though for the first time. He’s here. Here with Jack, Jack’s inside him and all around him, wanting him and only him. Bitty gives a cry and holds on tight. He’s on the edge, just knowing. .

In his arms, Jack shudders, lifts his head, struggles to maintain eye contact. “Bits,” he confesses, “you feel so good and I-- I’m not going to-- I won’t last.”

“Me neither, Jack, don’t _stop_ ,” Bitty begs.

Jack murmurs something in French and bites his lip hard. A second later, he’s thrusting forward, seizing up, all his muscles going rigid. Bitty thrills. “Yes, Jack,” he starts, encouraging, and then the feeling is overwhelming him too, and he breaks into a shout. “Oh-- _yes!_ ”

Jack’s shout echoes his own. They’re shaking, crying out, clinging to each other, and as the bliss pours through his system Bitty can only think that one word, _yes._

Afterwards, Bitty flops onto his back and laughs. “I’m sticky.” He runs a hand over his own chest, touching the spots where Jack had painted him with chocolate, then licked him clean. “I’m sticky in so many different ways.”

Jack laughs with him. “Do you need to shower?”

“Oh, probably.” Bitty doesn’t want to leave Jack’s side, even to clean up, but reality demands it. He sits up. “I think i’ll just take a washcloth and get myself clean.”

“Go ahead, then.” Jack reaches over and squeezes his hip.

Bitty yelps and jumps up. He shoots a dirty look at Jack and gets a warm smile in return. His heart flutters, and he turns away, heading for the bathroom.

He’s in the doorway when Jack calls out. “Bits?”

“Hm?”

“Hurry back here when you’re done.” Jack’s expression changes. “I … I want to tell you some things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cookbook is "There's Always Room for Chocolate," the Chocolate Room cookbook. It is written by my sister-in-law, so go buy it and have some chocolate decadence of your own.
> 
> And OK, you got me, there are no Jack-in-the-Boxes in Massachusetts. Poetic license!


End file.
